


Vespertine

by Yavannie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Foster Care, Friends to Lovers, Mental Instability, Mutual Pining, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Southside Serpent Jughead Jones, Strangers to Lovers, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2018-12-01 20:12:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 104,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11493903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: Betty has a knack for finding room in her calendar where there appears to be none, but this time she may have bitten off more than she can chew. She has to help Veronica beat Cheryl in the race for school president, run the school paper, excel at cheerleading practice, keep Reggie at arm's length and bake two hundred éclairs to promote the French Club, all while maintaining her grades. Truth be told, shereallydoesn't have the time to mentor a transfer student, but when has that ever stopped her?At least now that dad is gone and Polly has flown the nest, things at home have settled down a bit. Or have they?





	1. Elizabeth Cooper

**Author's Note:**

> In this alternate universe, Cheryl is currently in the same year as Betty, Ronnie and Archie. There are many changes to canon, the biggest of which is that Jughead transfers from, not to, Southside High.
> 
> I'm trying to write this as a way to relax and unwind, without too much pressure. You're very welcome to come along for the ride, but updates may be erratic.

_Let me tell you a story. The story about a girl called Betty Cooper, who lives in a nice house on a nice street in a nice part of Riverdale, and how she got landed with me, a screwup from the Southside, for a few short weeks in the junior year of high school._

_It all started… And you know, no one ever really knows when_ it all _started. In this case,_ it all _could be twenty-five odd years ago, when our parents wore Nike Airs and scrunchies, and ‘commie’ was still a viable insult. Or it could be seventeen and a half years ago, in the year of our Lord 2001, when the enemy East of the Wall had been swapped for the ones in the Middle East. Betty was born in the summer, to the sound of_ Survivor _peaking in the charts and crickets chirping peacefully in the fields; I was born to the sound of bombs over Baghdad on the six o’clock news and_ Fallin' _. It seems fitting, somehow._

 _For all intents and purposes, though,_ it all _started on the last day of spring break, at half past nine in the evening, when the door to the booth at the Twilight was forced open and I found myself pinned to the bed by the unnecessarily rough knee of a DEA officer, the springs under the thin mattress protesting loudly. For two and a half years, it had been my home away from the home I didn’t have, and I watched with one eye (the other was pressed into the pillow) as uniformed men tore through my life, flung it from drawers, swept it off tables, threw it in a pile on the floor. My dirty underwear was in that pile. My emergency supply of Pop-Tarts, my nice shirt (that’s still good if I wear a jacket over it or roll up the sleeves), my album of selected 35mm frames, hand-cut from the reels that pass through week by week. My shamelessly dogeared copy of_ Lady Chatterley’s Lover _, snuck from my mom’s bookshelf years ago._

_I would have thought I’d been embarrassed to see it like that, on display to a bunch of total strangers, but the efficiency with which they dismantled the room from floor to ceiling was simply too fascinating, so I lay there, watching. Besides, I had none of what I imagined were the usual drug kingpin paraphernalia. Long-dried bowls of ramen and the odd stale tissue were surely nothing compared to meth labs, half-naked ladies and an endless supply of those fancy little mirrors you cut cocaine on. These were the things I thought about as I lay there, firmly stuck in the vise jaw grip of the Law._

_Because they didn’t find any drugs, and because I’m still a minor, I was soon handed over to a soft-eyed woman called Latetia who gave me a few moving boxes and informed me that regretfully, I would have to go live in an actual house for at least six months and two weeks, henceforth completing my high school education under proper adult supervision. There were some perks to the arrangement, I was told. Like hot food every evening, fresh clothes and an actual, working shower, but to me, it was all a minor inconvenience, a slight bump in the road to the freedom I’d make sure to enjoy as soon as humanly possible._

_But I digress._

_This story isn’t about me. This story is about a girl called Betty Cooper, who lives in a nice house on a nice street in a nice part of Riverdale, and how she got landed with me, a screwup from the Southside who against his every intention fell head over heels in love with her._

_  
_

* * *

 

 

“You should do it, B,” says Veronica. “You’d win by a landslide.”

It’s lunch break and they’re sitting in the cafeteria, huddled together over their trays, keeping their voices down as they talk about the biggest piece of gossip to hit school on their first day back after the spring break; Cheryl Blossom’s bid to fill the presidential spot on the student council next year and (more importantly) how to prevent it from happening. Betty delicately pries her sandwich apart and peels the cheese off. A substantial amount of butter clings to the yellow, plastic-looking, processed slice of cheddar, she notes. She folds the cheese up and places it on a napkin.

“Flattered, but no thanks,” she says. The thought of going up against Cheryl is mildly terrifying. “You’ll be _perfect_ , Ronnie.”

Veronica sighs wistfully. “I know. And you guys know. But to the broad masses it’s one rich bitch against another. They’ll probably base their vote more on hair color than anything else. What about you, Kevin?”

“Oh, I would _love_ to run,” he says. “But it’s only been two years since I stopped getting weekly hair treatments from Reggie in the boys’ bathroom, and I’ve seen some of the looks I get from the freshmen. Sadly, Riverdale High is not ready for a gay president.”

Veronica seems to hesitate, eyes falling at last on the least likely candidate in their foursome. “...Archie?”

“No,” all of them say in unison, including the man in question himself.

“You’ve got this, Ronnie,” says Betty, grabbing her hand encouragingly. “We’ve got your back, every step of the way. With me by your side you don’t have to worry about posters and flyers and pins… You want it, you name it, I’ll print it.”

“And I will gladly be your politically correct vice president,” says Kevin, beaming. “Everyone knows the veep does all the hard work anyway.”

“And I’ll write you a campaign song!” says Archie. “It’ll be a cheerful one, I promise,” he adds quickly when the others pull distraught faces.

Betty lowers her voice. “I heard Dilton Doiley is thinking of running as well, and to be honest, I’m not sure if he’d be better or worse than Cheryl.”

“My mission is clear,” says Veronica, slapping her hand down on the table. “This election craves a voice of reason, and with you guys backing me I _will_ be Riverdale’s very own Ronnie Sanders.”

Betty high fives her friend, whooping, and Archie gives her a quick hug. Then Betty’s brain kicks into execution mode and she leans forward. “Right, the election is in May, the day after prom. We need to formulate the perfect strategy, and fast. Quick meeting in the Blue and Gold office, tomorrow after last period, before cheer practice.”

 

* * *

 

After the final bell has sounded, she’s making sure she’s packed her homework when a shadow falls over her. A hand plants itself heavily on the locker next to hers, and she rolls her eyes in frustration before turning around.

“No,” she says, before Reggie even gets a chance to open his mouth.

“No?” he asks, grinning. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

She had hoped this would stop after the spring break; that he would forget about it, or get bored, or simply give up. It had started some time after Christmas, when he drunkenly asked her to be his Valentine. He’d been dating Melody at the time, and anyway, Betty wasn’t interested, so she had turned him down. Reggie had gone from confused to pissed to annoyingly determined, and from then on, he’d kept _poking_ at it. Poking at _her_. Pinching her butt in the queue to the cafeteria, twisting her bra open through the back of her cheerleading uniform, even shooting rubber bands at her in math class. And at least once a week, he asked her - jokingly or not, she wasn’t sure - to go to the prom with him.

“I can hazard a guess,” says Betty, then wrangles her locker shut, trying her best not to rub up against him. “Please move.”

“I will if you go to the prom with me.”

His words are like a spark in a pile of sawdust. Her jaw clenches, as does her fist, and at the last minute she aims for his arm instead of his nose. “Move,” she says, punching him as hard as she can.

He barely flinches, and his grin widens. “Wow, Cooper. So _feisty_. I like that in a girl.”

At the edge of her vision, weird sparks are dancing, and her teeth make a grating little sound as they rub together. When she speaks, she hardly recognizes her own voice, quiet and deadly. “I swear to God, Reggie, get the _hell_ out of my face or I will kick you in the balls.”

At last, he backs away. “Christ, calm down Betty.” He huffs a short laugh. “I’m only joking. Relax, all right? _Christ_ …” He shakes his head as he walks off.

Betty unfurls her fingers, and it’s only then that she notices she’s trembling. Taking a deep breath, she rubs her palm, swiping away the wetness with her thumb, then bends down to fumble in her backpack for her makeup wipes.

“Miss Cooper,” comes a familiar voice from behind her.

She spins around, smoothly putting on her award-winning fake smile. “Principal Weatherbee,” she says.

“I’m glad I could catch you before you left. This is very last minute, but we have a new student joining us tomorrow and I thought maybe…”

Betty is Riverdale High’s most experienced peer mentor, having taken care of not only the organisation of freshman tours this year, but also personally mentoring several transfers and late arrivals. She usually enjoys it, but with the way her calendar is starting to look… “Of course!” she hears herself say cheerfully.

“I knew I could count on you, Elizabeth.” Weatherbee flips through some papers. “I don’t have all the details right now, but it’s a transfer student. One Forsythe Jones.”

She frowns. “Is that a first name or a surname, or…?”

He pulls an uncertain face. “I don’t rightly know. Ms. Carter will have more information for you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

 _Forsythe_ … The name is unusual, and it sticks in her mind as she walks briskly homeward. She googles it quickly. It’s a Celtic family name, and now she’s picturing someone broad and strong, with a cheeky grin, sun-kissed freckles and messy red hair. Perhaps someone a bit like– _No_ , she tells herself. She’s _not_ going there, so she puts her headphones in and listens to her favorite girlpower playlist until she’s once again at peace with the fact that men are not necessary for anything apart from maybe procreation, and that luckily, not everyone has to procreate.

A block and a half away from her house, her phone rings. It comes as no surprise at all to her that it’s her mom.

“ _Elizabeth… Betty. It’s me_.” She sounds strangely nervous, and her mom is _never_ nervous. Betty’s stomach lurches slightly. “ _Are you on your way home?_ ”

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

“ _Oh, it’s… It’s nothing. Well_ ,” and she laughs, a short little staccato. “ _I've decided to rent out Polly’s room, and the new… tenant will be moving in tomorrow_.”

Betty freezes on the spot. “ _What_?” Then a car sounds its horn, and she realizes she’s stopped walking right in the middle of a road. She hurries across to the other side, waving apologetically to the driver. Meanwhile, the jittery snakes in her belly have turned angry. “Why? And who are you renting to? _Tomorrow_? Why haven’t you said anything?”

“ _It’s my house, you know_ ,” Alice bites back. Then she sighs. “ _It was a last minute decision,_ _and it’s more of a, you know, a child welfare thing. The State CPS said they might have someone come by to drop off some papers, so I wanted to make sure you were going to be home. You know, it actually pays well to–_ ”

“Mom,” Betty breaks in. “Are you saying we’re going to be a _foster home_?”

Alice is quiet for a second. “ _It’s temporary,”_ she says in a soft voice that makes it sound more like ‘it’s personal.' _“We can talk more tonight, when I get back from work._ ”

“Can you at least tell me who it is?”

“ _Tonight, Betty_.” And her mom clicks away the call.

Betty stares at the phone, considering briefly showing it the finger, then stuffs it back in her pocket, head swirling with a million different thoughts.

As it turns out, she doesn’t have to wait more than thirty seconds to find out who, because parked in the driveway to their garage is a rusty old pickup truck. The back holds a few moving boxes, a bike and a worn duffel bag. Lounging against the latter is a young man, a crown-shaped beanie pulled over his eyes, one leg thrown over the side of the truck. She slows her steps as she approaches, trying to size him up. Aside from the weird hat, he’s wearing a plaid shirt and washed out jeans. His sneakers might have been recognizable as Converses once; now they look like they’re clinging on to existence by laces and sheer willpower alone. Everything about him points in one very specific direction: the Southside.

“Hello?” she says, walking up to the pickup.

He doesn’t seem to hear her at all, and then she notices the headphone cord disappearing down into his pocket. Betty bites her lip, and reaches out her hand, then thinks better of it and settles for knocking on the side of the truck. At the sound he jerks upright, pushing the hat back, revealing wary eyes under a slight frown. Her frazzled brain takes this very inopportune opportunity to note that he’s not entirely unattractive.

“Hi,” she says, giving him a bright smile.

He pulls the earbuds out. “Hey,” he says, looking around behind her, as if expecting someone else. Then he looks at her again. “Elizabeth?”

“Don’t call me that,” she says automatically. “I mean, yeah. Betty.”

“Betty,” he says, nodding. “I’m Jughead.”

Before she can stop herself, she can feel her eyebrows flying up. “Okay,” she says, trying to cover up the reaction; it may only be the second strangest name she’s heard today, but it’s definitely in her all-time top five. “Are you…? I mean…” She motions at the house, unsure of how to put it into words.

Jughead hops down on the ground. “Am I going to be staying here? Yeah.” The last word is more of a short laugh. “Not for long though.”

“You’re here kind of early.”

“Sometimes the wheels of bureaucracy turn surprisingly quickly.”

“Okay,” she says again, then closes her eyes for a few seconds. Maybe, just maybe, she thinks, when she opens them again, he’ll be gone and her day will return to a relative state of normalcy. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t, so she takes a deep breath and jumps right in. “I have _so_ many questions.”

 


	2. Forsythe Jones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and supportive comments, guys! I'm happy it's well-received so far :)

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper’s home. Never in my life have I seen such a tidy house. The garden is neat, the kitchen is spotless, the bathroom tiles gleam, and drag your finger along the top of a doorframe and I guarantee you it will come away clean._

_You’d be hard pressed to catch Alice Cooper doing much housework. It’s almost as if she keeps the house tidy through sheer determination, glaring at the corners through narrowed eyes, daring them to get dusty in the first place. The garage is the exception to the rule; an oil-stained, jar-filled, tool-cluttered mausoleum preserving the memory of Betty’s dad. Not that he’s dead or anything, other than in the eyes of Alice._

_During my first days in that house, I was wavering between wanting to watch my every step, making sure not to accidentally smear dirt on something, and looking for the next opportunity to do exactly that. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a dirty person. Even when the going got rough, during school holidays and the like, I knew where to find a decent bathroom and quarters to feed the laundromat. In that house, though, it was impossible to ever feel clean enough, and like some kind of sentient ink stain, I kept leaving marks wherever I went._

_A moving box carelessly scraped against the hallway wall had me frantically rubbing the streaks with the sleeve of my shirt. But that shirt had been in the back of dad’s car, and to my horror, the wall merely grew dirtier. My shoes left marks on the floor - even on the actual doormat, the very place_ intended _for shoe marks, as if my shoes were somehow dirtier than average - so I took them off. Then, my socks left lint on the floor, which I pushed under a low table with my foot. My fingers left prints on the white handrail of the stairs, and by that point I thought ‘fuck it’ and left them there. I made sure to leave some more on the way up._

_See how you like them apples, Coopers._

 

* * *

 

While Jughead carries his stuff in downstairs and parks his car in the garage, Betty sets what is likely to be a world record in folding clothes quickly as well as neatly as she empties Polly’s wardrobe of the clothes she’s left behind. A couple of items that catch her eye she surreptitiously sneaks into her own room. All of her sister’s most private things are gone, of course (she wouldn’t leave them behind for mom to find), but she still clears the desk and the vanity of personal belongings and knicknacks, putting them in a box to go in the attic.

“I don’t think you need to…”

Betty turns around to find Jughead standing in the doorway with his bag, looking apprehensive.

“What?” says Betty.

“Your sister’s room?” he asks, looking around. She nods. “Right. _Love_ the floral theme and the color combinations. How old was she when she moved out? Eight?”

Betty doesn’t know what to say to that, so she gives a polite little laugh. She knows less than she’d be willing to admit about foster homes, and although she’s trying her best to keep an open mind, this guy so far isn’t doing much to disprove her secret prejudices.

“Anyway, I’m not staying long, so don’t worry about clearing it out,” says Jughead, pushing the bag in with his foot.

“Not staying long, huh,” says Betty. “You keep saying that.”

“Correct.”

She hesitates, unsure of how to continue. “You don’t have to tell me, obviously,” she says eventually, “but what’s the deal here? How long exactly…? I mean, I only found out that someone was coming to stay, like, ten minutes ago. And we’ve never been a foster home before, so I have absolutely no clue what I’m supposed to be doing–” she gasps, realizing she’s completely forgotten her manners. “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat? A drink? Not alcohol, obviously, that would be bad, and _illegal_ , and–”

“Betty? _Betty_ ,” he says firmly, and when her gaze wavers, he moves his head a little, catching her line of sight. His eyes are glittering with something like amusement. “It is Betty, right?”

“Yeah,” she breathes.

“Okay, Betty. Calm down."

“Sorry,” she says, wringing her hands. “I just wasn’t prepared for this. At all.”

“Me neither,” he says, and for the first time, she can see the hint of a smile. A lopsided, wry one, but a smile all the same. “And yeah, I could eat.”

“Yeah?” she says eagerly, clinging desperately to this chance to follow some kind of protocol.

“I’m a _guy_ ,” he says, as if it explains everything. “That’s my secret, Captain. I’m _always_ hungry.”

She leads the way to the kitchen where she makes him a grilled cheese. He devours it in less than a minute, so she makes another two; one for each of them.

“Maybe foster homes aren’t all that bad,” he says after draining his second glass of orange juice.

“This is your first one?” she asks delicately, and he nods. She drums her fingers on the table. “Can I ask…?”

“Mom left a couple of years ago with my sister,” he says in a short voice. “And now dad’s going to jail.” He stuffs the remaining crust of his sandwich in his mouth.

“Oh.”

Jughead shrugs. “Mm,” he mumbles around the food.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s an asshole and probably deserves it. I just wish he could have waited, I don’t know, six months or so to fuck up.” He eyes the second, thus far untouched half of her snack. “Are you having that?”

She pushes the plate across the table. “And in six months you’ll be eighteen?” she ventures.

He nods. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll be out of here a _lot_ sooner.”

For some reason, she’s a little offended that he’s so eager to leave. “We’re not that bad,” she says.

He lowers the sandwich and looks her in the eyes. “I’ve been living alone for the past two and a half _years_ , Betty. And now they’re making me transfer schools, go to therapy, have meetings with social services, the whole shebang. It’s a pain in the ass, is all.”

“Transfer schools?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he snorts.

The cogwheels in her brain are turning frantically. _Jughead_. It must be a nickname. Surely it must be. “You’re Forsythe Jones!” she exclaims.

“Don’t call me that,” he says, glaring daggers at her.

“I hear you,” she says, holding her hands up. “It’s just… I’m going to be your peer mentor!”

“No, you’re not,” he says simply, wiping his hands on his t-shirt.

“Actually, yes I am. Principal Weatherbee–”

“I’m not going,” he says and stands up abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. “Thanks for this. Can I use your bathroom?”

Betty shows him both the downstairs and upstairs one, and while she waits for him she paces her room, picking at her scars and retying her ponytail until she hears the bathroom door open. Then she freezes, waiting anxiously for him to appear in the corridor. A few seconds later, though, she can hear the door to Polly’s room closing. Suddenly, she feels overwhelmingly tired and she slumps down on the bed. When she closes her eyes the world is leaning, spinning, and she can feel her eyeballs flickering back and forth uncontrollably.

There are so many things she should do. She’s made a mental list of things they could include in Ronnie’s campaign, and she should really write it down before she forgets something. And seeing as she’s going to be busy helping out with the aforementioned campaign, she probably ought to get started on the next piece for her Journalism class to avoid having to do it last minute. She’s promised to make eclairs for French Club next week, and she needs to make the recipe at least once beforehand, to practice. Also, there’s a column from Ethel in her inbox that she needs to proofread ahead of the next issue of the _Blue and Gold_ , which is due out on Friday. Then there’s cheer practice, which she’s actually considered skipping tomorrow, but she also knows that Cheryl’s been looking for an excuse to kick her off the squad and that she’ll swoop down on her like a hawk if she shows any sign of weakness.

 _Get up_ , she tells herself. _Get up now. Right now_ , but her body won’t cooperate. Instead she lies there, listening to the muffled sounds of Jughead moving around next door until finally, the frantic merry-go-round in her head slows down and she falls into a restless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Dinner that evening is an awkward affair. Her mother is prickly about the mix-up with the dates and to compensate for not being able to be there to intimidate him in person when he arrived, she rattles off a whole list of house rules that Jughead neither comments on nor looks intent on keeping. After that Betty can’t think of anything to say, and Jughead is shoveling down food at an astonishing rate considering that he had two and a half grilled cheese sandwiches a couple of hours ago. Alice watches his table manners with mild distaste, and Betty is beyond amazed that she hasn’t said anything about the hat.

“How is FP these days?” says mom suddenly. “Apart from the whole going to jail business, that is.”

Jughead coughs into his glass, spraying his nose with soda. He wipes it off with his sleeve, frowning at Alice. “You know my dad?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Alice twirls her wine glass between her fingers. “We went to school together.”

Betty’s eyes zoom from Jughead to mom and back again. “What?” she asks.

“Elizabeth, go and fetch dessert,” says her mom sharply.

“But–!”

“There’s peaches and cream in the fridge.”

With all the speed she can muster, she pulls three bowls from the cupboard, takes the peaches out of the fridge, throws the carton of cream a desperate glance, then grabs the Reddi-Wip instead. Quickly, she piles the items on a tray and carries it through to the dining room. Jughead has slid down an inch or two in his seat, and he’s glowering at Alice.

“Real cream,” says her mom without looking, and Betty scurries off again.

She blasts the cream furiously with the hand mixer, but by the time she’s finished whipping it and brought it through, Jughead has disappeared from the table.

“What was that all about?” she asks, helping herself to a couple of peach halves.

“A few things needed clearing up,” says Alice.

Betty wavers for a few seconds. “I don’t think he’s planning on staying here,” she says finally.

“Oh, he’s staying,” says mom. Then, just as Betty reaches for it, she picks up the mixing bowl holding the cream. “You know how your tummy bloats when you eat too much dairy,” she says with a smile before taking it back into the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Betty can’t sleep that night. Through the wall she can hear music, and she thinks she can hear Jughead as well, talking on the phone. It doesn’t really bother her, but she worries that mom will “have words” with him. She knows her mom inside and out, knows exactly what her big red buttons are and how to avoid them. Sometimes, not even that helps; when they’ve gone for too long without Alice letting off some steam, the tiniest, stupidest thing might set her off, and they’ve had a worryingly good streak this past month. Luckily, she appears to have knocked back some pills tonight, because even the occasional wailing of angsty guitars doesn’t stir her.

At half past one, she hears Polly’s window slide open, and her whole body tenses up. The sounds from outside are unmistakable; he’s climbing down the roof, running away on his first night here. She gets out of bed and pads silently to the window. From behind the lace curtain, she peers down into the garden and there, hurrying away towards the street is a shadowy figure. Betty wonders what to do. Should she tell mom? Should she be calling someone? Her fingers worry at the fresh scars in her right palm, and seconds turn into minutes as she thinks, rethinks and overthinks.

In the end, she goes back to bed. He’s seventeen and a half, and by his own admission used to getting by on his own. She doesn’t know him, but she knows she doesn’t want to betray him. Her mind goes to Polly. _You can’t keep people locked up if they want to be free_ , she thinks.

 


	3. The Great Gatsby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest thanks to [diokomen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Diokomen/pseuds/Diokomen) for beta reading this and giving invaluable feedback. And thank you to everyone leaving kudos and comments!

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper and the way she looks at you._

_When she’s talking to you, she’s much the same as anyone else. Her eyes will flicker here and there, because no one likes to maintain eye contact for more than a couple of seconds at a time._

_But when she’s watching you from a distance, she does it openly, curiously, unaware that you can see her looking. When I first noticed it, she was looking at me like someone who has lived her whole life behind the one-way mirror that is insignificance. She was looking at me like someone who is used to looking at a person who doesn’t look back._

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Betty wakes up early, bleary-eyed and weirdly hyper from lack of sleep. The house is quiet as the grave, and she hobbles off to the bathroom to pee. On her way back, she pauses by Polly’s door, listens for a few seconds and then opens it.

She should have realized that he wasn’t going to be able to sneak away permanently in the middle of the night; he’d have to move all of his things again, get his car out of the garage somehow. Still, it comes as a complete surprise to her, seeing Jughead there in Polly’s ornate bed, his head on her rose colored pillow. His hair is a mess, hiding most of his face, and she feels an acute need to push it out of his eyes, maybe give it a good brush. Then he groans softly and shifts a little, and she’s _standing there in nothing but a tank top and her panties for Christ’s sake._  As quickly as she dares, she shuts the door again, hardly allowing herself to breathe as she hurries quietly back to her own room. There, she manages to stub her toe on the threshold, and the sound echoes through the house like someone felling a tree. Skipping on one leg to her bed, she flops down and pulls the covers over her head.

A minute passes, and then two, and there’s no sign of movement from next door. Eventually, she peeks out from under the duvet. Before she leaves the safety of her room a second time, she makes sure to put on her pajama pants, then tiptoes over to the bathroom for a shower.

By the time she’s dressed, she can smell cooking from downstairs. Not since before her dad moved out has there been hot breakfast in this house; mom is really making an effort. After checking herself in the mirror from a couple of extra angles, she walks over to Polly’s door and knocks. Nothing happens, so she knocks a little harder. Now she can hear shuffling around, and after a few moments, the door opens a tiny crack.

Jughead looks half-dead in a baggy t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, the rings under his eyes rivaling those mom was sporting during the presidential election. Despite looking like he’s literally just stumbled out of bed, he’s wearing his beanie.

“Breakfast is ready,” she says with a smile.

“Just a minute,” he grunts and closes the door again.

She’s unsure whether that means ‘just a minute, wait for me there’ or ‘just a minute and I’ll be down’ so she lingers at the top of the stairs, fiddling nervously with the sleeve of her jumper. Jughead emerges surprisingly quickly, now in a hoodie and jeans. There’s something dangling behind him, and she’s about to draw his attention to it when she realizes it’s suspenders, hanging like that on purpose. Involuntarily, her bottom lip pulls down into a little grimace; he’s not exactly going to blend in well at school.

“What’s wrong, Cooper?” he asks. “You take issue with my fashion choices?”

“What?” she says, horrified. “No! Absolutely not.” She hurries down the stairs, trying to convince her face not to turn red, but from the way her cheeks are burning she’s pretty sure she’s failing badly.

In the kitchen, mom is in full swing, juggling two sizzling frying pans on the stove while she butters a piece of toast.

“Wow,” says Betty. Jughead trails in after her, and his eyebrows fly up into that floppy hair of his.

“There’s skinny overnight oats in the fridge, Betty,” says Alice, piling sausages and bacon on a plate, then nods at a pitcher on the counter. “Help yourself to juice, Jughead.”

“Thanks, Mrs Cooper,” he says, sidling over to pour himself a glass.

At the table, Jughead stares at the mountain of food in front of him, then looks at Betty’s bowl.

“Skinny overnight oats?” he says doubtfully.

“Mm-hm!” she says, poking at the gooey gloop. “It’s really good actually. Much better than it looks.”

“I should hope so,” he says, spearing a sausage on his fork. “That’s all you’re having?”

“Her stomach can’t really handle a heavy breakfast,” says Alice, emerging from the kitchen with her staple double espresso.

“O-kay,” says Jughead quietly, then turns his attention to his food.

Betty looks at Alice, who looks back with a smile. For some reason, she feels like scooping out a spoonful of her skinny overnight oats and catapulting it at her mom’s face. She curls her fist under the table, just a little, and the compulsion eases.

 

* * *

 

Betty is in the process of pulling her rain boots on when he comes down the stairs.

“You’re coming to school after all?” she asks. 

“For now,” he says.

Mentally, she rolls her eyes. “Normally I walk, but it’s raining pretty hard today. We’ll catch the bus, the stop isn’t that far.”

Jughead snorts. “Look, I didn’t spend two hours wrangling dad’s car from the authorities for nothing. I’m driving.”

“Oh.” She looks out the window. The rain is coming in sheets now. “Do you think I could…”

He stares at her. “ _Of course_. Did you think I meant just..? _Jesus_ …” he mutters, shaking his head while he jams a foot into a sneaker.

The truck sounds like it drinks half a gallon a mile, and the smell reminds Betty of helping dad in the garage.

“Did mom talk you into staying yesterday?” she asks as they pull out of the driveway.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Although she might have been able to if she’d really tried. No offense, but your mom kind of freaks me out.”

“None taken,” she says with a smile.  

Jughead seems to know the way, which given the size of Riverdale isn’t that strange. Instead of doing what she _had_ planned to do on the way (that is, giving him a little pre-introduction to her actual introduction) she keeps glancing over at him. There’s something about him that keeps drawing her eye, and she studies his neck, where stray locks of dark hair curl themselves around the edge of his beanie, his jaw, clenching every now and again as he focuses on driving. He seems to be wearing a perpetual frown, his mind clearly elsewhere. It’s weird, being driven to school by a guy. She can drive, of course, but mom usually takes the car to work. Besides, the two mile walk is good exercise. Archie still bikes most days; she’s not sure, but she thinks maybe Fred’s business isn’t doing great, and certainly not good enough for him to spend money on a second car. Betty feels a quick pang of guilt. Maybe she should have suggested they give him a ride as well? No, surely that would be overstepping some kind of boundary.

Since she hadn’t counted on going by car, they arrive early. The school atmosphere is different at this hour, the teachers walking the corridors unhurriedly, chatting to one another, raincoats slung over their arms, mugs of steaming coffee in their hands. Betty likes to be here before class, likes the feeling of not having to stick to the walls unless she wants to shoulder her way through the crowds.

Weatherbee’s assistant, Ms. Carter, greets her with a smile. Betty is a staple visitor to the office.

“Forsythe Jones?” says Ms. Carter. “Here’s your schedule and a map of the school. I’ve got some forms for you to fill in.”

Betty can see the little twitch as he hears the name, but he doesn’t comment on it. While he scribbles away at the papers, she glances at his schedule. They’ll be taking three classes together, she notes; AP English, Math and P.E. He’s taking Creative Writing as an elective, and a little thought starts forming in her head which she tucks away for later.

She takes him on a quick tour of the complex, marking his classrooms on the map as they go. Following her standard tour route, she points out the lounge, the cafeteria, the office of the _Blue and Gold,_ and the cabinet where the school’s trophies crowd the shelves. The corridors are starting to fill up now, and they get curious looks as they navigate the crowds. At her side, Jughead is quiet, face closed, and there’s no sign of the occasional snarky banter she’s been able to draw from him in private.

“So, is it very different from Southside?” she prods.

He’s got his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense and hunched. “You know it is.”

“I don’t know,” she says with a friendly smile. “I try not to put too much stock in rumors.”

Jughead stops there, in the middle of the corridor. “If you’re _really_ interested, I’ll give you a guided tour like this some time.”

“I’d like that,” she says, and although she hates admitting it to herself, she probably wouldn’t like it a single bit.

“Yeah?” he says, and there’s a certain edge to his voice. “I didn’t know there was a market for slum tourism here, but I’m sure we can rustle up some nicely run-down mobile homes and a SNAP office for you to look at while we’re at it. Bring a friend! The more the merrier.”

Betty is stunned, grasping for words. “That’s not… I’m not…”

“Betty, Betty, Betty,” comes a familiar voice behind her. As if to add insult to injury, Cheryl’s turned up.

“Hello, Cheryl,” says Betty, turning her back against the wall, now trapped between Jughead the salty Southsider on one side, and Cheryl, who transcends epithets, on the other.

“A little bird chirped at me this morning,” says Cheryl. “And it was the most hilarious little trill - that _you_ , certified closet nutjob and the latest in a long line of habitual try-hards of the Cooper clan, along with your rag-tag gang of ultimate losers, are conspiring against _me_ , trying to push for Veronica Lodge as president of the student council.”

“Umm…” she says.

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Betty dear, because in this, the Game of Thrones of Riverdale High, you either win, or…” Cheryl lets the sentence trail off.

“Lose?” suggests Betty.

“Thank your lucky stars it’s not you against me in the debates, Roly-Poly. I would have eaten you alive.” Then she turns to Jughead, her never-resting bitch face turning sweet and friendly in a heartbeat. “You must be new here,” she says with a smile, then hands him a badge. It’s bright red with a sparkly ‘C’ on it. “Remember, the fate of Riverdale is now in _your_ hands. Vote responsibly. Hashtag-chez-for-prez.”

With that, Cheryl stalks off, heels clicking menacingly.

Jughead looks after her, then turns to Betty. “What or who was that?”

“That was Cheryl Blossom.”

“Blossom?” he asks. “You mean, _the_ –”

“Yes, of House Blossom,” she says, jumping on the high fantasy bandwagon.

“Wow. The devil doth wear Prada.” He tosses the badge into a nearby trashcan. “Roly-Poly?”

“It’s an old nickname,” sighs Betty as they start walking again. She had known going up against Cheryl would be hard, but she hadn’t imagined they’d start off at this level of antagonism.

“Alright, I won’t ask. I gather there’s school presidency drama?”

Betty sighs. “Yeah, she’s kind of right. We _are_ conspiring against her and I’m starting to think it was a bad idea. She’s evil incarnate, so the campaign is going to be _hell_.” Just then, she spots Kevin outside the classroom they’re headed for. _Finally a friendly face_ , she thinks. They’re all having English together first period.

“Hey Betty,” says Kevin, waving cheerfully. Then he sees Jughead and his face drops in unmasked shock.

For a second, Betty is thoroughly disappointed in her friend. Yes, Jughead obviously sticks out a little in the crowd, but this is simply bad form. “This is Jughead, he’s _new_ here,” she says, glaring at him. “Jughead this is–”

“Hey, Kev,” says Jughead. “Good to see you.”

“Hi,” says Kevin, voice quivering slightly.

Betty gapes at Jughead, then Kevin. “You _know_ each other?”

“Mutual acquaintances,” says Kevin hurriedly, at which Jughead raises his eyebrows. “And Jughead, I’m so, so sorry–”

“Don’t be,” Jughead interrupts him. “He had it coming.”

Then the bell rings, and they start shuffling into the classroom. ‘Tell me everything!’ Betty mouths at Kevin, who hisses, “not now”.

As she sits down, Betty’s eyes fall on the whiteboard, and her stomach drops. “Oh crap,” she says under her breath.

“What?” asks Jughead quietly.

“We had homework. I _totally_ forgot.” She can feel her pulse racing, her palms getting sweaty. Frantically, she digs around in her bag for her book, thinking maybe she can cram in a page or twenty in the space of thirty seconds.

“Good morning, class,” says Mr Hernandez, his voice heralding the downfall of Betty’s impeccable three year streak of successfully turning in even the smallest assignment. “You’ve all read chapter one of _The Great Gatsby_ for today, or so I should hope. Let’s take ten minutes to write individual reflections on the chapter before we begin group discussions.”

“Excuse me,” says Jughead, raising his hand.

“Yes?” Mr. Hernandez looks at him over his glasses. “Ah, Mr. Jones, is it? I’m Carl Hernandez, welcome to AP Lit. Have you read _The Great Gatsby_?”

“No, Mr. Hernandez.”

“You’ll have to get a copy from the library. As for today, I suggest you sit back and observe. Betty, would you mind helping Jones get settled in with our routines?”

“Of course, Mr. Hernandez,” she says, stupid tears of panic burning in her throat.

The air fills with the sound of pencils scratching away on paper, and Betty stares at her blank notepad, for once in her life feeling utterly at a loss for what to do in a classroom.

“It’s okay,” says Jughead in a hushed voice.

“It really isn’t,” says Betty.

“Hey, everyone forgets their homework once in a while.”

“I don’t.”

“And look, that guy’s sleeping at his desk,” he says, pointing at Moose Mason, who for some obscure reason has applied for (and will most definitely fail) this class. “Anyway, it’s fine. I’ve read the book like three times. I’ll help you out.”

Betty looks at him in shock. “But you said…”

“Yeah, I know I did. And now I’m telling you to write this down.”

Betty’s pencil flies across the paper as she copies everything he whispers to her, word for word. When he leans close, she can smell his car again, and the hand soap they keep in the bathroom, and her stomach is all aflutter with the thrill of cheating.


	4. Between a Jock and a Hard Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly cannot thank [Diokomen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Diokomen/pseuds/Diokomen) enough for this one. Prompt and professional, she made this chapter so much better than it would have been without her. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank [Raptorlily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily) for her immensely supportive pep talks, not to mention promoting this fic on tumblr. I'm absolutely floored by the feedback so far - your comments have me grinning from ear to ear guys :*)

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper, the girl who gave a shit._

_There’s this thing that she does that drives me up the freaking wall, where she tries to be the grease in just about everyone’s wheel. Me, I like it when things get a little creaky, a little real, but Betty tries her very best in every possible situation to keep everyone happy. It gets on my nerves like nothing else but somehow I think it keeps her sane. There’s some part of her that needs to believe that she wants the best for everyone, all the time. Maybe there’s a part of her that genuinely wants it, too._

_I’ve had plenty of people pass through my life, acting like they gave a shit only to turn around and disappear when the going gets tough. That’s why you need to be at least a level four friend to unlock my tragic backstory, et cetera, et cetera. With Betty, I threw my tragic backstory in her face and made it extremely clear that I wanted none of her upper middle-class, suburban plastic pity. She promptly ignored that and kept giving a shit, over and over again._

_I don’t know what to make of that._

 

* * *

 

Since Betty knows his schedule, she manages to intercept Jughead just as he’s leaving his History class for lunch.

“Thank you _so_ much for saving my butt earlier,” she says, falling into step with him. “Want to grab lunch?”

“Are you paying?” he asks bluntly.

“No, but my mom is.” Betty furrows her brow in contemplation. “Actually… She does kind of get money for having you live with us, so I guess the taxpayers are paying?”

“Hah,” he laughs darkly. “Screw those guys, right?”

When they’ve loaded their trays with food, Betty leads him to her usual table. The rest of the gang is already there, and once they’ve sat down, Betty makes introductions.

“Everyone, this is Jughead Jones. He just transferred here from Southside High. Jughead, this is everyone. Kevin you’ve met, and I can’t _wait_ to hear more about it.”

“I can _absolutely_ wait,” says Kevin cheerfully.

“This is Veronica, my wife in another life and our beacon of hope in the war against Cheryl.”

“Enchantée,” says Veronica with a pleasant smile

Betty turns at last to Archie. “And Archie. He’s actually my neighbor. Well, our neighbor.”

“Hey,” says Jughead, nodding at them all in turn, then starts cramming fries into his mouth.

“ _Our_ neighbor?” says Veronica, cocking her head with a confused frown. “Who exactly constitutes the _we_ here? Or have you finally realized that your busy schedule is too much for one Betty to handle and started dabbling in clone technology?”

Betty braces herself. “ _Well_ … Jughead’s family sort of fell on hard times, and in a strange twist of events, it turns out that he’s…” She pauses and looks at him, not sure how to say this without making it weird. He’s completely focused on his food and doesn’t seem interested in helping her out. “...Staying with us for a while,” she finishes.

Three pairs of eyebrows shoot up in perfect unison.

“I see,” says Veronica, but with just one look at Betty, she’s also already said about fifteen things, ranging from ‘when did this happen and why wasn’t I told’ and ‘you, me, bathroom, very very soon’ to ‘okay but he’s kind of cute, no’.

“I don’t,” says Archie, and Betty gives a miniscule shake of the head, which he completely fails to pick up on. “Do you guys know each other or what?”

“No,” say Jughead and Betty as one.

“But you’re staying with Betty and Alice?”

“ _Archie_ ,” says Ronnie with a little laugh, while Betty and Kevin exchange pained looks.

“What? It’s a valid question.”

Jughead raises a finger, then takes a couple of seconds to finish chewing. “What they’re _trying_ to do is being delicate regarding the fact that I’m currently a tragic case file in some cabinet over at Social Services.”

Betty shifts uncomfortably, but Archie stares blankly at him. “I don’t get it,” he says.

“My dad is a fuckup and I was moved to a foster home,” says Jughead, enunciating each word carefully.

“Oh,” says Archie, a light going on somewhere beneath those ginger locks. “So, you’re like Betty’s foster brother now?”

“No!” Jughead and Betty say again. They glance at each other.

“That’s not exactly...” starts Betty.

“It’s temporary,” says Jughead, hammering home this particular point for what feels like the umpteenth time.

“Cool, cool,” says Archie, nodding, earning a double-glare from Betty and Veronica. “Hey,” he says, as though he’s just realized something. “You play Borderlands?”

“I used to,” says Jughead warily. “A couple of years ago.”

“Aah, my man! I’ve been wanting to try the co-op for ages. Come over tonight and we’ll give it a try.”

Jughead looks at Archie as though he’s trying to figure out what kind of game he’s playing. Betty almost has to bite her tongue not to tell him that if someone ever asked Archie about hidden agendas, he’d probably start looking for long-lost calendars; right now, he’s just desperate for someone to play video games with. “Yeah, cool,” says Jughead finally, apparently coming to that conclusion himself, and Betty and Veronica exchange an amused glance as the two go off about consoles versus PC.

“Ladies’ room,” says Ronnie under her breath. “See you in two.”

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the lunch break and the following two periods, Veronica presses Betty for details. All in all, she finds herself answering vaguely, sometimes because she simply doesn’t know much herself, and sometimes because it feels wrong to gossip about someone whose life is pretty much a mess.

“Even you have to admit he’s got a certain bad boy something,” says Ronnie quietly when they spot him in the corridor before the final period.

“Shh!” Betty hushes with a smile before Veronica waves her goodbye and heads off to Calculus.

For Betty and Jughead, it’s time for Algebra. Miss Simpkins is never exactly a ray of sunshine, and her face seems to turn especially sour when her eyes fall on Jughead as she enters the classroom. Once she’d jotted down a few page numbers on the board and told everyone to get started, she comes over to their table.

“Jones,” she says, looking down at a paper. “From Southside High.”

“Indeed,” says Jughead, and already, Betty can feel her stomach tightening a little.

“Scraping by by the skin of your teeth.”

“Excuse me?”

Miss Simpkins looks at him levelly. “Your grades, Jones.”

“I’ve passed my exams so far,” he says, and he keeps forgetting to address her formally, or perhaps he’s refusing to. There’s something about the way he sets his jaw that makes Betty sick with nerves.

“Perhaps you did in your _old_ school,” says Miss Simpkins, her voice hardening, “but if you think that a C at Southside High means a C here, you are sorely mistaken. If you wish to maintain a pass grade, you’ll have to prepare to put some _real_ work in.”

“Miss Simpkins,” Betty blurts out, since Jughead looks just about ready to flip a table. “Surely the curriculums of both Riverdale and Southside High follow a certain standard?”

Miss Simpkins snorts. “Supposedly,” she says. “But we all know how it works out in the real world, and it’s in everyone’s best interests if Mr. Jones here is aware of that.”

Jughead draws a breath as if to say something, but Betty quickly interjects. “This sounds worrying, Miss Simpkins,” she says earnestly. “A discrepancy like that could jeopardize the whole college application system.”

“Well, yes…” says Miss Simpkins, sounding a little less sure of herself.

Betty leans forward. “Perhaps the grading process at the different schools here in Riverdale should be given a more thorough review? As editor in chief of the _Blue and Gold_ , I’d be more than happy to conduct field studies over at Southside.” She gives Miss Simpkins a look as though she’s just had an idea. “I could compare their methods to yours! That way, we’d easily expose any–”

“Miss Cooper,” says Miss Simpkins, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation has taken. “This is hardly the time or the place.”

“Of course,” says Betty with a smile. “Some other time.”

“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me,” says Miss Simpkins and stalks off towards the board where she hastily starts scribbling down a problem.

Betty has to focus on her breathing for a few seconds, because once Simpkins has turned her back, the rage inside her bubbles up. What kind of a way is that to treat a new student? Sure, there’s always been dirt-flinging going on between the students of Riverdale and Southside High, but a _teacher_ … She’s too ashamed to look at Jughead, so she opens her book and works methodically, page up, page down until the bell sounds.

“So, what now?” says Jughead as they’re gathering their things up.

“It’s half an hour until cheer practice,” she says. “And before that I need to get to the _Blue and Gold_ for a meeting about Ronnie’s campaign.”

“You’re a cheerleader?”

“Yes,” she says, pretending not to hear the tinge of disapproval in his voice. “Um… Mom didn’t give you a key, right? I don’t get out of practice until four thirty...”

“I have some stuff to do,” he says.

“Okay. Mom gets home around five, and dinner’s at six.”

“All right,” he says, rocking on his heels with a frown. “Maybe… I could take your number, just in case.”

“Oh my God, of course,” says Betty, starting to dig around in her backpack.

“Here,” says Jughead, holding his phone out. “You’re in a hurry. Put your number in, I’ll text you.”

 

* * *

 

The campaign meeting feels almost cathartic. After a day of hauling Jughead around, treading a fine line between curiosity and despair, organizing a campaign is like rinsing her face with cool water. In just twenty minutes, she’s set up Google documents and shared them with everyone, presented a suggested timeline for speeches and events, and showed a quick draft for a poster.

“Wow,” says Kevin, smiling politely. “You’re really going in for this, aren’t you?”

“As I’m sure we _all_ are,” says Betty. “Archie, how’s that song coming along?”

“Uh, great,” he replies, looking up from his phone.

“Betty, this is all wonderful, and I’m _so_ grateful, but we need to go,” says Veronica. “Cheryl’s going to rip us to shreds if we’re late.”

When they arrive at cheer practice, Reggie is waiting outside the locker room, leaning up against the wall.

“Oh dear,” mutters Betty.

“He’s still not giving up?” asks Ronnie. Betty shakes her head, getting ready to ignore him as best as she can, but Veronica puffs her chest up and juts her chin out. “What do you want?” she asks as they approach.

Reggie smiles, but it’s not the usual wolf-like grin. “I wanted to apologize to Betty, actually,” he says, sounding eerily sincere. “And while you’re here, Ronnie, I’ll give you a heads up; Cheryl’s on the warpath today.”

Veronica rolls her eyes. “I should probably nip this one in the bud,” she says to Betty.

“Go ahead, I’ll be right in.” Then she turns to Reggie. “Apologize away.”

Reggie looks at his feet and has the good taste to blush a little. “I’ve been a huge dick these past few weeks,” he says. “Sorry about that.”

“Right,” says Betty. It’s a good start, but she’s not convinced yet.

“I just… I had a bad breakup with Melody and I guess I wanted to prove something. I shouldn’t have tried to use you for that.”

“No.”

He holds his hands up with a lopsided smile. “So this is just me backing away. Until you let me know otherwise. Okay?”

She can’t very well start arguing with him now, and even if she’s got a minor manifesto prepared in her head, this doesn’t feel like a good time to start preaching. _Baby steps_ , she thinks. “Okay,” she says, eyeing him thoughtfully, then spins on her heel and goes in to get changed.

Reggie wasn’t kidding when he said Cheryl was getting ready for battle. Today, it seems like Veronica can do nothing right. Semi-constructive coaching quickly descends into insults, and soon, the air is thick with tension as the two rivals shoot metaphorical laser eyes at each other across the gym.

“Slow _again_ , Veronica!” shouts Cheryl, stopping the song at fifty seconds in for the third time in a row.

“I was not, and you _know_ it,” Ronnie snaps back. “I wasn’t last time either, so what exactly is the problem here?”

“The problem here is _you_. Precision, power, perfection.” Cheryl punctuates each word by banging her fist into her palm. “Unity, cooperation, _effortlessness_. Those are the things we strive for, Ron-Ron. How are we supposed to manage _any_ of that when you’re mentally still on lunch break?”

Veronica crosses her arms and walks up to Cheryl. “This is about the election, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. _Is_ it?” Cheryl is smiling triumphantly. “Maybe, you can’t handle the pressure of both running for president and maintaining the exceptional standard needed to be a River Vixen? And this is only the _campaign_ , Veronica. Maybe it’s time you chose one or the other?” She claps her hands together twice. “Dismissed, ladies! Let’s give poor little Ronnie some time to think about this. Cheerleading or presidency? I expect an answer by next week.”

Strangely enough, Veronica leaves it at that, looking at Cheryl thoughtfully as she packs up, flanked as ever by Ginger and Tina.

“What the heck was that?” says Betty quietly. “You did nothing wrong. And as if she wouldn’t have _just_ as much–”

“I know,” interrupts Veronica, eyes still on Cheryl. “But I don’t think bitching about it in front of everyone is going to help _me_ win any votes. I'll settle this on the battlefield of the debates.”

 

* * *

 

When she emerges from the locker room, hair still wet from the shower, Reggie is in the same spot as before practice. It’s like déjà vu, only more tiresome.

“Gum under your shoe, Reggie?” she says.

“What?”

“Nevermind. Have you been here all this time?”

He huffs a laugh and joins her as she starts walking. “No. Cheryl wanted me to check out practice, see if the routine is on point for the final game. Didn’t you see me?”

“My focus wasn’t exactly on the stands today.”

“I don’t blame you.” Reggie lowers his voice. “Cheryl was _way_ out of line.”

“You could say that.”

“Between you and me, I’m not sure I want her to win.”

“Then don’t vote for her?”

“It’s not that simple,” says Reggie. “Captains need to support one another. Hope you don’t hold it against me.”

“Nope,” she says, hoping to end the conversation there.

For a while, they walk in silence, and Betty wonders why exactly he’s hanging around when he _explicitly_ said he was going to back off. His intentions become apparent as they reach the parking lot.

“Want a ride home?” he asks.

Betty is just about to politely but firmly turn him down when she spots something that makes her stop dead in her tracks; Jughead, leaning against his truck some way away, looking especially rebellious in a leather jacket she hasn’t seen before. She can’t for the life of her figure out what he’s doing here. Is he waiting for her? He’s bent over his phone and hasn’t spotted her yet.

“What the hell,” says Reggie. “Since when do Southside losers hang out on this side of the tracks? Don’t worry Betty, he’s not about to start shit with me here.”

“That’s _Jughead_ ,” says Betty. _Losers?_ _Start shit?_ She almost feels personally insulted.

“You _know_ that guy?” Reggie’s eyes widen. “Wait, don’t tell me he’s your _boyfriend_?”

“No!” she says. “He’s… He’s new here. I’m his peer mentor.” There’s something strangely thrilling about Reggie jumping to that conclusion though, and she hides a smile as she walks quickly towards the truck. Jughead looks up from his scrolling and sees her. He straightens up, then stiffens somewhat at the sight of Reggie trailing behind her.

“Hey,” he says apprehensively.

“Hi,” says Betty. “What are you doing here? I thought you had stuff to do.”

“Yeah, it’s done. I was passing anyway, and I thought…” He glances at Reggie.

“You were riding with me, right?” says Reggie to Betty, jutting his thumb over his shoulder to where his Audi R8 is parked.

Betty feels like she’s ended up in some alternate universe where, for some unknown reason, boys are suddenly lining up to give her rides home from school while sizing each other up in the parking lot. “You live all the way over in Midvale, Reggie,” she says. “Jughead’s… Going my way.”

“Suit yourself,” says Reggie and stalks off towards his car.

With a heavy sigh, Betty gets in on the passenger side of Jughead’s truck and belts herself in. Leaning back against the headrest, she allows herself to close her eyes for a few seconds.

“Trouble in paradise?” says Jughead and turns the key to the ignition.

Tiredly, she turns her head to look at him. “Huh?”

“Your boyfriend?”

“What? _No_!” This time, Betty can’t keep herself from actually cackling out loud. “Reggie’s a jerk, and… Just, no.”

Jughead looks amused. “Captain of the football team, right? Saw him in science class. Not to mention heard him.”

“Ugh, I can imagine.” She rests her arm against the window and rubs her temple. It’s been a day and a half. Then the train of thought from five minutes ago catches up with her. “So, wait, why did you come back to school?”

“Honestly?” he says. “I’d rather not spend longer than absolutely necessary alone with your mom.”

Betty laughs again, because she totally understands that feeling, and because she’s so exhausted she can’t help herself. Once she’s started, it’s hard to stop, and she keeps giggling until she’s almost crying. Jughead looks over at her, then shakes his head, but she can see the smile he’s trying to hide.

 


	5. Venn Diagrams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Diokomen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Diokomen/pseuds/Diokomen) and [Raptorlily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily). You know why <3

 

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper and the way she gets under your skin and into your life._

_It starts with kindness, with an honest and open smile. Then she touches you, randomly, and not just with her hands. There’s a sweetness to her, a sweetness of the kind that I’ve always imagined would be sickening. Somehow it’s not, though, and the moment I started craving it, I knew I had screwed up._

 

* * *

 

After dinner that evening, Archie comes around and wants to know if Jughead is going to take him up on that Borderlands offer. Much to Alice’s dismay, he does.

“Curfew is when?” she says, standing on the porch, arms crossed.

“I’m literally going next door,” says Jughead.

“I know exactly where you’re going, but that’s not what I asked.”

Betty, hovering half a step behind her mom, raises her eyebrows at Jughead, urging him to just say what Alice wants to hear.

Jughead sighs. “Ten.”

“And not a minute later.”

Once Betty has retreated upstairs, she texts him quickly to apologize for her mom. Then, because she absolutely cannot contain her curiosity anymore, she facetimes Kevin. He picks up on the third try.

 _“Evening!”_ he says, a little too cheerfully.

“Kevin…”

He pulls an uncomfortable face. _“Don’t tell me this is about you-know-what.”_

“You _have_ to tell me!” says Betty.

 _“Shh, don’t say another word,”_ he says. _“Can I come over?”_

Twenty minutes later Kevin sits down on her bed, wearing a face like he just ran over someone’s cat. “It’s bad, Betty,” he says.

She grabs his hand. “Oh my God, what?”

He looks like he’s bracing himself, then he glances up at the ceiling quickly. “Okay. _Okay_. You know how a couple of weeks back I said I was sort of… Seeing someone?”

“Yeah?” He had let it slip by accident one night and then refused to answer any and all questions. Now the obvious explanation strikes her and she gasps. “Is it Jughead?”

Kevin stares at her for a second. “What? _No_. No, no, he’s not gay.” Then he shrugs. “Well, he might be bi, I don’t know. I’ve seen him with girls. Anyway, no. _Totally_ not my type.”

“Right, my bad, go on,” says Betty, trying to talk her brain out of its sudden concern with these _girls_.

“It _is_ someone from Southside,” he says quickly, almost stumbling over the words.

“Okay,” says Betty, nodding slowly. “And that’s… Bad?”

“Betty, he’s a… You know, a _Serpent_.”

“Ouch,” she says, pulling a face. The Southside Serpents are well-known as the troublemakers of Riverdale.

Kevin leans in closer, lowering his voice. “And here’s the thing about Jughead. His father is a high ranking Serpent. This weekend, dad caught him with two pounds of cocaine in the car.”

Betty gives a low whistle. “Holy shit. So that’s why he’s going to jail. No wonder Jughead seems to want nothing to do with him.”

“Yeah. And Joaquin…”

“Joaquin?” she asks. “Your boyfriend?”

Kevin puts his hand over his mouth. “Please forget that name,” he says, wincing. “And I’m not sure he’s my boyfriend, exactly…”

“What about… him?” She smiles. “See, forgotten his name already.”

“Jughead’s dad was _kind of_ his boss,” says Kevin, cringing slightly.

“Yikes, Kev, just how criminal _is_ your boyfriend?” And, she thinks privately, how involved is Jughead?

Kevin flops down on his back, dragging his hands across his face. “Ugh, I don’t know… And now he’s freaking out because _of course_ he is. My dad’s the sheriff, yada, yada, yada. I don’t actually know how involved he is in all of this, because we don’t really talk about it. And I don’t know how much _Jughead_ knows. About anything. But he knows who I am and that I’ve been seeing Joa– _you know_. And that’s bad enough. So. Now you know why I was freaking out this morning.”

Betty looks out the window. She can see the flickering lights from Archie’s television behind the drawn curtains. “I’m guessing the sheriff doesn’t know about any of this?” she asks.

Kevin sits back up. “What do you _think_ , Betty? Why do you think I’ve kept this from everyone, even you?”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I should probably just stop seeing him,” he says, sounding utterly miserable. “I just… I didn’t think he was _that_ bad.”

“Talk to him,” Betty suggests. “Maybe he’s not. Maybe he was just… I don’t know, caught up in stuff beyond his control.”

“Maybe,” says Kevin doubtfully. Then he sighs. “I really liked him, Betts.”

She pulls him into a tight hug. “Maybe you still do? You’ll never know if you don’t ask him.”

 

* * *

 

When she hears Jughead getting back some ten minutes before the curfew, Betty can feel herself relaxing; she hadn’t even realized until now that she was worried he’d miss it. After a couple of seconds’ hesitation, she gets up from her bed where she’d been catching up on _The Great Gatsby_ and opens her bedroom door under the pretense of going to the bathroom. He’s just coming up the stairs when she steps out.

“Oh, hi,” she says, trying to sound appropriately surprised at seeing him there.

Jughead raises his eyebrows by way of greeting. “Hey.”

He slows down a little, then stops at the landing, so she asks, “Did you have a good time?”

“Sure.”

“Archie’s all right,” she says with a smile.

“Yeah.”

He glances down at his feet, and Betty suddenly feels like an overbearing goody two shoes. She motions towards the bathroom. “I was just going to–”

“What have you been up to?” he asks at the same time, looking up again.

“Oh–”

“Sorry, I–”

They share an awkward smile. “Homework,” says Betty. “ _Gatsby_ and that online task from Simpkins.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Jughead, scratching at his neck. “I should probably get on that. Anyway, you were going to…” He glances down the hall. “Don’t let me detain you.”

Once in front of the mirror, Betty brushes her teeth vigorously, as though hoping to scrub away the uneasy feeling in her stomach. She’s not sure why she’s nervous around him; she’s not even sure whether it’s a good or a bad kind of nervous. Ever since he showed up at her house yesterday, he’s been more or less constantly on her mind. It’s not that strange, considering the circumstances - she can give herself that. Also, yes, Veronica has a point. He _is_ attractive somehow, plus he likes _reading_ which is a rare quality in a– Her hand freezes in the middle of a stroke, and she frowns at her own reflection.

“No,” she says sternly around her toothbrush, causing a bit of toothpaste foam to drip onto her top. Irritably, she wipes it off with a finger, spits and rinses, then turns to the mirror again. “No. We’ve talked about this before. No high school boys. They are _not_ worth it.”

When she opens the door to leave, Jughead is standing there waiting with a towel in his hand, and Betty’s heart flies up into her throat, then plummets down into her belly, hot with embarrassment.

“Hi again,” he says, sounding frighteningly much like someone who’s just overheard something and is trying to cover it up with glibness.

“Hey,” she mumbles and pushes past him, feeling her face getting redder by the second.

She only makes it a few steps towards her room when her mom calls her from downstairs.

“Betty?” Alice is standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking like she disapproves of something, possibly _everything_.

“What?” Betty practically snarls.

“What’s with all the yapping up there?”

“It was Jughead,” she says reflexively. “I mean, it’s _nothing_. We’re just going to bed. I mean, _I_ am. _Ugh!_ ”

Her mom stands there for a second with her eyebrows raised, but apparently decides against commenting. “Did you do your homework?” she asks instead.

“God, mom, when have I _ever_ not done my homework?” she says, then stomps off down the hallway.

Back in her room, she sinks down on the bed. After an initial minute or two of quiet panic, she feels curiously empty. It is what it is. Worst case scenario, Jughead heard every word of what she said in the bathroom, and best case he thinks she’s a weirdo who talks to herself when she’s alone.

“Everyone does it,” she mutters, then groans at herself for doing it yet again.

To distract herself, she gets out her laptop and starts polishing Friday’s issue of _The Blue and Gold._  It’s on a bi-weekly edition and usually consists of a contrived sports section, the odd piece of news, plus columns and editorials from whatever friends that Betty can goad into churning out a couple of hundred words now and again. Now, the upcoming election is the clear choice for the front page, but her obviously biased position as both editor of the paper and best friend of a candidate is troublesome. She pulls a strand of hair from her ponytail and twirls it between her fingers as she carefully composes an objective headline in her mind. Then, her thoughts are interrupted by her phone buzzing on the bed next to her. It’s a text from Jughead.

 

10:31pm  
Did you finish your math hw?

 

Infinitely relieved that it’s a neutral topic, Betty sits up a little straighter and reties her hair before replying.

 

10:31pm  
Yep. You?

 

She keeps her eyes on her phone, waiting with bated breath until she can see him typing again. It’s beyond strange to think that the only thing separating her and the person behind those jumping dots on her screen is a wall.

 

10:32pm  
I’m struggling. I guess Simpkins has a point bc we didn’t cover sets yet in Southside and now I’m screwed.

 

Finally, she feels like she’s on solid ground. Math may not be her strongest suit, but she gets by just fine. Her thumbs fly across the screen as she composes her answer.

 

10:33pm  
She does NOT have a point, she just likes to put us on the spot with unnecessarily hard stuff. Where are you stuck?

 

10:33pm  
Firmly on the first page.

 

10:33pm  
:/

 

His next message is a picture of his laptop screen with the first problem set by Simpkins, accompanied by a simple ‘Help plz’. Betty hesitates. There’s no way she’s going to be able to do this via text, and so she chooses her words carefully.

 

10:35pm  
I can’t draw Venn diagrams on here.

 

10:35pm  
Venn diagrams are involved?

 

Betty glances around the room. It’s tidy enough, but she takes a lap to pick up a stray pair of shorts, put her diary in her desk, and check herself in the mirror. After a moment’s consideration, she turns off the desk lamp and switches on the fairy lights instead. Then she sits down on the bed with her phone again.

 

10:37pm  
If you want help you have to come over.

 

10:37pm  
K.

 

“Wait, wait,” she whispers under her breath, typing again.

 

10:37pm  
Wait

 

10:37pm  
?

 

10:38pm  
Window route.

 

10:38pm  
Window route?

 

10:38pm  
Use the ledge.

 

She stares at the phone until her eyes water, but he’s stopped typing. Then comes a quiet knock on the window that makes her jump half a foot in the air.

“Good grief,” she mutters, then goes over to slide it open.

“Okay but why though?” Jughead asks, putting his laptop on her window sill before climbing in. He’s changed into a new t-shirt and the hair sticking out from under his beanie looks damp.

“Mom,” says Betty in a hushed voice.

“Ah,” he says knowingly.

“Polly and I used the window route all the time. I’m not sure she knows to this day.” She pulls the chair from her vanity table over to the desk, then pats the desk chair, inviting him to sit down. “Now, let’s see about these Venn diagrams.”

Jughead sits down, and as he does, Betty catches a whiff of her own scented body wash, and can’t stop herself from sniffing the air a little. He clears his throat.

“Yeah… I didn’t exactly get a lot of time to pack, so… Hope you don’t mind me using whatever was in the bathroom.”

An imagined scenario flashes through Betty’s mind; hazy images of Jughead dragged from a house in some derelict neighborhood - and she realizes she doesn’t even know where he used to live - in the middle of the night, possibly taken somewhere against his will. She remembers what Kevin said, and wonders if the police came, and if so, whether they treated him well, or–

“ _Of course_ not,” she says, impulsively laying her hand on his arm. He glances down on it, then up at her face again, frowning slightly, so she removes it quickly. “I’ll tell mom to get some… You know, men’s products. Or we can just ask her for cash for it, and you can buy your own. Yeah, that’s probably better.”

“Men’s products?” he says, clearly amused.

“You _know_.”

“Elizabeth Cooper” he says seriously. “I’ll have you know that I’m secure enough in my masculinity that using lilac scented body wash was _never_ the problem. I just happen to prefer green tea and cucumber.”

Betty can’t help but smile. “Don’t call me that!” she chides, bumping her shoulder into his. “Do you want help or not?”

Jughead opens his laptop, then slides it over to her. “Knock yourself out,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

She snorts a little laugh. “Jughead, I can’t just _give_ you the answers.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because that would be _cheating_.”

He nods slowly. “I see. And why exactly wasn’t this a problem earlier?”

“What are you talking about?”

“In English.”

Betty huffs. “That’s… Different.”

“Different how?”

She has to think a little before she answers. “I forgot my homework,” she says finally. “But I’m caught up now, and analyzing the book from here on isn’t going to be a problem. This is different because you won’t learn anything from me just giving you the answers.”

“And what if I’m not really interested in learning?”

“Why not? You need to, if you want to pass your exams.”

Jughead picks up a pen from her desk and turns it over in his hands thoughtfully. “If I want to,” he says, almost to himself. Then he turns to Betty. “And then, when I’ve passed my exams and gotten my mediocre grades?”

Betty shrugs. “Then… You can go to college and–”

“Yeah, right,” he says bitterly. “I’m sure the scholarship offers will arrive by the truckload.”

His words make her angry, not just because, _well_ , he’s probably right, but also because his hopeless attitude is just as infuriating. “Okay, but then why do you even care about homework in the first place?”

“Staying under the radar, I guess.”

Betty is about to blurt out a question about what he means by that, but then she thinks, maybe she doesn’t want to know. “Right,” she says, running her fingertips over the now healed-over scars in her palm. “If you ask me, I think there’s a point in learning this anyway. In learning _anything._ ”

“Give me _one_ good reason to learn about Venn diagrams,” says Jughead. “Like, when will I _ever_ get a chance to apply this in real life?”

She muses over it for a second, then waggles her eyebrows at him. “You can make super accurate memes?”

Jughead sighs, then slaps the pen down on the table. “Fuck it, let’s do this.”

 

* * *

 

It’s past midnight and she’s been asleep for more than an hour when the sound of her phone buzzing on the bedside table wakes her up. Betty groans and squints at the screen. It’s Kevin.

 

12:23am  
You up?

 

12:23am  
I am now

 

Seconds later, he’s calling her.

“What’s going on?” she asks, still half-asleep.

“ _Dad just got back from the station,”_ he says in a hushed voice. _“He’s been working overtime all evening. You know those two pounds of cocaine they found in Jughead's dad's truck?_ ”

Suddenly she feels wide awake. “Yeah?”

“ _Someone managed to break into the evidence room and steal it_.”


	6. At the Drive-In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been absolutely TERRIBLE with replying to comments lately, I'm so, so sorry! Real life hit me like a ton of bricks the past couple of weeks (not in a super horrible way, just in a work-is-hell way) which is why it's also been very slow going. But hey, here's an update!

_Let me tell you about the way things were supposed to go, and the way they didn’t go at all._

_“There’s no way in hell I’m going to go live with some stuck-up snobs in the actual Wisteria Lane of Riverdale, JB,” I told my sister over the phone while I was waiting for Sheriff Keller to sign the forms that would give me the first piece of the puzzle to freedom; dad’s truck._

_“_ I’ll talk to her _,” said Jellybean. “_ As soon as she gets back from shopping. I promise _.” She spoke quickly, and I don’t know if it was from excitement, or doubt, or both._

 _When she said ‘her’ she didn’t mean our mom, by the way. Mom, believe it or not, was seen as unfit for parenting even before my dad. To be honest, I don’t know who of them did the worst job. He always made the most noise and the biggest mess, and his various addictions is what pushed the family over the brink of despair, but sometimes, coming home to a parent who doesn’t say anything, doesn’t_ do _anything but lie there sleeping, is worse._

 _When Jellybean said ‘her’ she meant grandma. Grandma, who always hated dad, and who blamed him for everything that went wrong, be it mom’s sorry state or the goddamn crops failing. Grandma, who had never liked me either, who always said I was too much like_ him _. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that_ I _like_ her _, because I don’t. I mean, there’s a reason why I didn’t go with them to Toledo in the first place._

_But even hell has levels, and I felt as though the circle of grandma’s house was slightly cooler than that of summertime in a suburban foster home. So, the plan was to lie low until JB had given me the OK, take dad’s car and head west on the I-86, not stopping until I was across the state line._

_She called me that night, crying._

_“_ She says you can’t come _,” said Jellybean, voice unsteady and thick with tears. A couple of ugly sobs from her punched two aching holes in my chest. "_ Juggie, I’m coming to you instead _,” she said._

_"No, you’re not,” I said, keeping my voice gentle, soothing in spite of the whooshing sound inside my brain. “You have a decent life, JB. You’re not giving that up.”_

_“_ But I want to see you! _”_

_I closed my eyes, shutting out the oppressive pinkness of the room, the neat desk, the lacy curtains. I could still feel the bed underneath me though, disturbingly soft and springy. “Well, you can’t,” I said. I meant it to sound cold, wanted it to, but instead it came out cracked and frail._

_Once we had hung up, I grabbed some clothes and stuffed them in a rucksack. It was like a classic scene from a movie. I had to get away, didn’t know where, didn’t care either._ I just had to get away. _The words echoed in my head as I climbed through the window, my arms shaking a little from the thrill of it all. The only thing missing was a good soundtrack._ America _, by Simon and Garfunkel, perhaps. Too obvious? No, on a night like this, all bets were off and nothing could make my escape any more cliché than it already was. Just me, the full moon, the empty roads and… Alice Cooper’s car, parked in front of the garage._

_“Fuck,” I whispered, feeling all that pumped up purpose drain from my limbs._

_I hesitated a couple of seconds and then retraced my steps, looking up at the open window. There was no way I was going to be able to get back up there without waking someone up. Besides, I had decided to go, so go I would. I crossed the lawn, and headed towards the city._

_The lady at the bus station spent an inordinate amount of time flipping through a yellowed timetable. There was a definite lack of modern conveniences like, you know, one of those basic TV screens showing the departures. It appeared this Greyhound branch was somewhat behind the times. The lady cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses. “The first bus going west is… The 510 to Erie.”_

_“Erie,” I repeated. It wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for, but at least it was west, and across the state line. “Fine. How much?”_

_“Forty-three dollars.”_

_I pulled a disgusted face. Riverdale to Erie would have been less than twenty bucks in gas, even with the thirsty wreck I was driving. “All right,” I said, getting my wallet out._

_“It’s via Buffalo, by the way.”_

_“_ What _?” I’d been about to push a bunch of crumpled up bills into the slot under the window, but now my hand froze. “That’s_ miles _out of the way!”_

_The lady shrugged. “That’s the first bus, kid. Departs from bay two, ten twenty-five. Do you want the ticket or not?”_

_I looked at the clock hanging behind her. “Ten twenty what now? In the_ morning _?”_

_And, like Truman at the bridge, I had to admit defeat. Slowly, I walked back towards the Cooper residence. I’d lie low for a while, I decided. Make some more money, maybe find out where Mrs Cooper kept her cash. This summer, I thought, I’d pack up and go, and next time I’d be better prepared._

_Luck had it that the basement door was unlocked, and I snuck inside, climbing the stairs to my luxurious prison cell._

 

* * *

 

“Do they have any idea who it might be?” asks Betty.

“None at all,” says Kevin. “Whoever it was managed to disable the security cameras and left no prints.”

They’re sitting high up on the bleachers, pretending to watch football practice. Betty’s mind has been bubbling with half-baked theories about the stolen cocaine since last night, and unfortunately they all seem to revolve around Jughead.

“So, when exactly did it happen?” she asks, even though she's not sure she wants to know.

“I'm not sure. Afternoon, evening-ish,” says Kevin and Betty's belly squirms. “Not that surprising, I guess, but dad’s mind actually immediately went to Jughead.”

“Oh?” The squirming turns into an almost painful tingling sensation.

“Yeah, for a minute I was worried he was going to start asking questions, but then I reminded him that Jughead's staying with you and he dropped it.”

There's a sour taste in Betty's mouth. “Uh–” she starts, but Kevin’s already talking again.

“I think the best guess they’ve got is that it’s an inside job. That much cocaine will earn a pretty penny. Dad’s furious, of course.”

“I can imagine.”

She wants so badly to tell Kevin that, as a matter of fact, Jughead has a couple of hours yesterday that are completely unaccounted for, but she also feels that she should be giving her new house guest a bit more credit. It’s not like she has any real evidence, and the inside job theory sounds extremely plausible. Maybe she should do some digging before she starts jumping to conclusions. In any case, they both fall quiet because the Bulldogs have taken a break and Reggie is climbing the steps to where they’re sitting, carrying his helmet in his hands.

“What are you two lovebirds chatting about?” he says, running his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair.

Kevin gives Betty a confused glance. “You do know that I’m gay?” he says to Reggie.

“So?” says Reggie. “Betty might be as well. I don’t assume things about my friends, and neither should you.”

“ _What?_ ” Kevin says quietly to himself.

“Hey, Bets,” says Reggie, turning to Betty. “I saw that manifesto on Ronnie’s blog. It says you wrote it.”

“Correct,” says Betty hesitantly.

Reggie looks into the distance thoughtfully. “I really dig what you’re saying,” he says eventually. “I agree with that whole democracy thing, and hell yes we need new books! The other day I read in my history book that the current president was Clinton and I was _so_ confused for a moment.”

Betty can feel herself blinking, temporarily stunned into silence. “That’s great Reggie!” she says then. “It’s good to see you taking an interest.”

“In what parallel universe…” mutters Kevin, and she jabs him with her elbow.

“I’ve thought about this a lot,” says Reggie. “Personally, I feel the same way about Veronica as I do Cheryl. Crazy ass bitches both of them.” Betty cringes and Kevin snorts, but Reggie doesn’t seem to notice. “But these are your ideas, Betty, and heck, you convinced me. I’m going to vote for Ronnie.”

Betty smiles at him. “Awesome!” she says, trying to ignore Kevin’s impatient fidgeting next to her. “One more vote for a good cause.”

“Not just one vote,” says Reggie. “You got my vote, you’ve got all of the Bulldogs.”

He grins and salutes her smartly, then trots off down towards the pitch again.

Kevin splutters incoherently for a few seconds. “What the _actual_?” he says. “I’m not buying that for a _second_.”

A flash of annoyance surges through Betty. Is it really that strange that her words spoke to someone? “Give him a break,” she says. “He's clearly read it.”

“Yeah, and as shocking as that fact is in itself, I can't help but wonder _why_.”

“Because he actually cares? Like he said, we shouldn't just assume stuff.”

Kevin barks a short laugh. “Seriously? When it comes to Reggie Mantle I reserve the right to assume one hundred and fifty percent of the time.”

Betty doesn't know what to say to that, because he's right. In the past, Reggie has been downright horrible to Kevin. She sighs. “I understand that you're suspicious, Kev. I guess we'll see.”

Kevin shrugs. “And I guess in this election any vote is a good vote,” he says, bumping his arm into Betty’s in a playful peace offering.

It's only after they've parted ways, when she's on her way to Jughead's truck to get a ride home, that she realizes that she never told Kevin about Jughead's absence yesterday. He hadn't been with her at all, but now she more or less confirmed he had by not objecting.

 

* * *

 

The days go by without Kevin mentioning the ordeal again, and Jughead seems his usual self; sulky and sarcastic by day, slightly more upbeat by night. Bit by bit, the dramatic world of midnight raids and stolen drugs seems to fade into the background again.

On the Thursday, Jughead knocks on Betty’s window again, asking if she wants to trade some critique on their latest Gatsby assignment. They sit on the bed while they read, and she both hates and loves the way she thinks much harder about him than about his writing. She notices every little move he makes, the way his hand rests on his knee, inches away from her own, the way he shakes his head slightly to get the bangs out of his eyes every now and again, the way his gaze flickers back and forth across the screen of her laptop.

 

* * *

 

 

When they come back from school on Friday, they find Alice in the process of buttoning up her coat.

“I need to work tonight,” she says snappily, then glares at them in turn. “Dinner’s in the oven and I trust you two won’t get up to any funny business while I’m away?” Betty shakes her head, but Alice decides to give the full speech anyway. “No impromptu parties, no social gatherings of any kind, in fact no bringing more than one friend over, and that one friend cannot be Archie. No drinking, no smoking, no snacking after eight o’clock–”

“ _Mom_ ,” says Betty, mildly horrified that Jughead has to hear this.

“Actually Mrs Cooper, I’m working as well, if you remember me saying,” says Jughead.

This is news to Betty. “You are?”

“Oh, of course, you told me,” says Alice, much to Betty’s annoyance. Why is she the last to know everything in this household? “Make sure you come back straight after. And Betty, be good.”

She kisses Betty on the forehead and pats Jughead awkwardly on the arm before leaving them there in the hallway.

Because you can only spend so long with a guest in the house before you force yourself to relax a little, Betty changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt before they eat, ready for an evening of catching up on her Journalism assignment. Dinner is roast chicken, and Jughead helps himself to about half of it. Betty cuts herself part of a breast and, because she’s feeling adventurous, grabs a wing as well.

They sit down in front of the TV to eat; when the cat’s away, the mice will play. “So, what kind of work do you do?” asks Betty.

“I’m a projectionist. At the Twilight.”

Betty’s eyes widen. “You never told me! And I didn’t even know there was anything on tonight. What are you showing?”

“ _Blade Runner_ ,” says Jughead.

“Oh, cool,” says Betty without really knowing the first thing about _Blade Runner_. She wonders who of her friends would be interested in heading to the Twilight at short notice, because for some reason she’s already looking for an excuse to go.

“Have you seen it?” asks Jughead.

“Um…”

Jughead gives her a lopsided smile. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Betty. You should come.”

Betty’s heart does a little flip. “With you?”

He frowns. “To be honest the booth isn’t the best place to actually watch a movie, so…”

“Oh yeah,” Betty says with a little laugh. “Obviously.”

“But if you wanted to see the inner workings of a cinema before they’re completely extinct, and if you don’t have a date…”

She motions at her pants. “Do I _look_ like I have a date tonight?”

“Well, maybe you’d better get changed again because you do now,” he says, calmly biting into a piece of roast potato, and Betty is infinitely grateful that he turns to watch the beer commercial on the TV instead of seeing her slowly turn red.

 

* * *

 

Since Jughead has to prepare the reels, they arrive at the drive-in a couple of hours before anyone else. As he unlocks the door to the booth to let her in, Betty feels strangely elated, curiosity mingling with nerves; it’s like she’s in some secret, off-limits area, and to top it all off, her mom doesn’t have a clue she’s here instead of in her room being a good girl. The excitement fades quickly as she walks inside, though. The booth is a cramped space, and the first thing that strikes her is what a _mess_ it is.

“Uh,” says Jughead uncertainly, hurriedly making a quick lap of the room, picking things up from the floor as he goes. “I didn’t think they’d leave it like this. Sorry...”

Betty looks around. There’s opened film cans everywhere, some empty and some with rolls of film still in them. The projector itself takes up much of the space, and there’s a small workbench next to it. What she hadn’t expected to find was the portable stove, or the bed, the sheets bunched up on the floor, the narrow mattress lumpy and lopsided. The more she looks, the further her heart sinks. There’s not just film on the floor; there’s clothes too, and books, a couple of broken CD cases, a fork…

Without a word, she kneels down and starts matching up film reels with labels on empty cans, puts them back on the shelves as neatly as she can. The personal stuff, she leaves alone for him to sort through. They work in silence, methodically clearing up the space until it looks more or less decent again. Jughead slumps down on the bed, and Betty sits down on the chair by the workbench.

“Who did this?” she asks gently.

“The DEA,” says Jughead. He sounds tired. “They thought I was stashing drugs for my dad.” The contempt in his voice is so raw and visceral that she feels guilty about ever considering the very same thing herself.

She sucks on her lip, hesitates. “You lived here, didn't you?” she says. It’s not exactly a question, and he pulls a face which while agreeing with her statement also lets her know that ‘living’ is not always a clear cut concept. “How long?” she asks.

“A couple of years,” he shrugs. “Since mom and JB moved out.”

A couple of _years_. Her mind boggles at the thought. “Why didn't you go with them?”

Jughead clears his throat and frowns uncomfortably. “Ah, you know… I was already in high school, grandma only had the one spare room... And someone has to keep an eye on dad.” He smiles bitterly. “Not that that did anyone any good, right?”

Betty doesn't know what to do, what to say. This is so much worse than what she had imagined, even in her most overblown, dramatic guesswork scenarios. “I’m so sorry,” she says lamely.

“Yeah, well,” he says, getting up. “Life goes on, and we have work to do.”

Jughead finds the cans for _Blade Runner_ and shows her how to spool the film onto reels. As he works, his mood seems to brighten a little, and Betty leaves him to it, walks the short distance to the other side of the room to look at the posters on the wall. She steps on something that makes a papery noise, picks up a little strip of film from the floor and holds it up to the light. It’s four frames altogether, depicting a woman carrying a basket. She recognizes the scene. _All I want is a room somewhere, far away from the cold night air..._

“This looks like Audrey Hepburn,” she says. “In _My Fair Lady_.”

“It’s probably is,” says Jughead from the workbench. “One of the reels snapped when we were showing it a couple of months ago and I had to patch it up a little.”

“Won’t people notice?”

He glances over at her. “That’s not even a quarter of a second. I use the scraps for bookmarks sometimes. Take it if you like the movie.”

“I can keep this?” she asks, disproportionately happy at this lucky find.

“Of course.”

She slides the little strip into her phone case carefully. It’s technically worthless, but it feels precious somehow, like a childhood treasure of the kind that her mom would hate her bringing home.

 

* * *

 

Betty watches the movie from the roof of the booth. There’s a hatch in the ceiling, and with the help of a chair and Jughead giving her a leg up, she manages to clamber up there. After starting the first reel Jughead joins her, pulling himself up seemingly without effort, and when he sits down it’s not too close, but it’s close enough for her to _wonder_. What he thinks of her. If he finds her pretty. If he likes her, even remotely.

Fifteen minutes into the movie, he climbs down again to change the reel, and Betty realizes that she hasn’t been following the plot at all, and tries to focus in case he wants to talk about it afterwards. When he comes back, he’s brought snacks and sodas.

“I know it’s after eight, but…”

“Give that here,” she demands, grabbing the popcorn bucket. Before she can think better of it, she crams a handful into her mouth.

Although they’ve had some warm days, it’s still early April and the night air is chilly. Betty shivers a little despite her jacket, and Jughead sitting down next to her isn’t helping - isn’t he just a tiny bit closer now than before? The heat from his leg seems to radiate towards her. She tries not to overanalyze things and fails miserably. What would happen if she nudged him, seemingly by accident? If she moved her hand closer to his, would he take the hint? Just as she sneaks it from her lap and onto the weathered slates he gets up to change the reel again, and she’s not sure whether she feels more relieved or disappointed to see him go.

This time, he brings a blanket. “It’s getting cold,” he says, holding it out to her.

Betty takes it gratefully. “What about you?” she asks.

“That was the only clean one I could find, but I'm fine.”

“I don’t mind sharing,” says Betty in what she hopes is a suitably carefree way.

And so she finds herself huddling together with Jughead under the blanket, eating popcorn and watching a sci-fi noir that still makes no sense, buzzing with nerves and unspoken, unexpected attraction. Below them, the handful of cars that have turned up reflect the light from the screen, steel roofs flickering in time with the movie. If Betty had to guess how many have turned up for the cinematic experience, she would have to go with none. The drive-in is notorious for two reasons; minor drug deals and as a getaway for couples looking for some time alone that they can’t get at home. She thinks about all the making out that's likely going on down there, and can't help but wonder what it would be like to kiss Jughead.

A year and a half ago, Betty made a deal with herself. The deal was that no boy would ever come between her and her happiness again. She'd spent three months in her sophomore year mourning Archie, watching the romance between him and Veronica unfold, unable to tear her eyes away while her grades plummeted. Christmas hadn't been a turning point exactly, but the break from school had given her the chance to unwind, reflect and formulate a strategy. The rules had been simple; first and foremost, her future was her freedom and must thus be her number one priority. Secondly, if time doesn't heal all wounds, keeping busy will at least help cover them up. Thirdly, no high school boys. The first two had been neatly covered by a frenzy of school work and extracurriculars for the past year and a half, and the third… Well, she'd long ago resigned herself to the fact that no one would ever compare to Archie, so that one was a no-brainer.

Jughead interrupts her thoughts, his arm rubbing against hers as he moves his hand to rest on his knee. Betty looks at it, wonders if it _means_ anything. It's been less than a week since this boy, this _high school boy_ came into her life, and already he’s got her breaking all her rules. Casually, she places her hand so that it mirrors his. The space between them can be measured in millimeters, but when she steals a glance at him he looks completely immersed in the movie. Then he shifts, and his knuckles brush against the back of her hand, sending shocks of anticipation up her arm. Betty waits a few seconds, barely remembering to breathe, but he's not making any more moves. Her turn then, she thinks, and tilts her hand so that her fingers rub against his a little. The next two seconds are potentially the most nerve wracking she's experienced for months, and she can't even bear looking his way, but then she feels it; he's running his finger gently down hers, a slow, searching touch that makes her next breath stutter a little.

And then there’s a buzz in her pocket, making her jump and jerk her hand away. The moment is gone and Jughead loops his arms around his legs as she fumbles for the phone.

“Crap,” she says, looking at the preview on the lock screen. “Mom’s on her way back home. _Crap_.”

“Take the truck,” says Jughead, already holding the keys out.

She hesitates. “Are you sure? What about you?”

“Please don’t insult me by insinuating that I’m incapable of walking for thirty minutes, Betty. Just make sure to park it in a side street or something.”

“Thank you,” she says earnestly, and she’s so relieved that she’s almost about to plant a kiss on his cheek. She stops herself at the last second, instead giving him a weird little half-embrace before she climbs down through the hatch again.

 

* * *

 

 _“Do you really think ‘our grand establishment’ is over the top?”_ asks Veronica with a frown, the picture lagging ever so slightly on the screen.

“Yes,” says Betty firmly. “They may be freshmen but they’re not complete idiots. Maybe ‘distinguished’?”

_“Do they even know what that means, B?”_

Betty does her best impression of the ascii shrug emoji. “Will it matter if they don’t?”

It’s Monday evening and she and Veronica are holding an last minute Skype session ahead of the first debate tomorrow. The candidates are going up against one another in front of the first year students, a last minute idea pitched by the debate club in a bid to get more freshmen to sign up. Now they’re polishing up the final draft to make sure they’re armed and ready to face Cheryl.

“Another thing–” starts Betty, but she’s interrupted by her phone ringing. “Hold on a sec, it’s Kevin,” she says, picking up. “Hello?”

 _“Betty, did you by any chance fail to mention that Jughead wasn’t actually with you last Tuesday afternoon?”_ He sounds stern and disappointed, in the way that only Kevin can.

She goes cold, and it must show on her face because even Veronica looks concerned. “Uh… Maybe. Why?”

_“Because my dad is on his way to your house to arrest him right now.”_


	7. A Tale of Two Cities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags for this work have changed to include self-harm.
> 
> Many thanks to diokomen, my trusty, wonderful beta, and to Raptorlily who's always got her pom-poms ready when I'm having a rough day <3

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper, the girl from the right side of the tracks._

_She smiles in the face of adversity, because she firmly believes in the objective goodness of mankind, in second - possibly third - chances, and that justice is unshakeable._

_As the resident Debbie Downer of Riverdale, it’s practically my job to inform you that I have firsthand experience of the subjective evil of mankind, of not being given a first chance to begin with, and the rotting, corrupt part of the Law that deigns to grace Southside with its presence._

_When you have money, you don't even have the kind of problems you need money to solve. And if by any chance trouble comes your way, being rich is like an insurance without having to pay a premium; when you have money, society bends over backwards to make sure you don't have to spend it on anything that isn't classed as luxury goods._

_When Betty Cooper smiled in the face of my adversity, I wanted to tell her this is your doing. You, your family, your whole street; I hold you personally responsible._

_But we'd been reading Emily Dickinson that week and, well, the heart wants what it wants._

 

* * *

 

Betty hangs up the phone, then turns to her laptop and the Skype window again. “I need to go,” she tells Veronica. “Something came up, sorry.”

“ _I'll want all the juicy deets later_ ,” says Ronnie, but Betty can tell she’s covering up sincere concern with the offhand comment. She flashes her a quick smile before she shuts the computer.

There’s music playing in Jughead’s room, and she knocks firmly. The volumes drops, and a few seconds later he opens the door.

“Hey,” he says, with a surprised smile, and Betty realizes that maybe she should have done this sooner, when she wasn’t the bringer of the worst possible news.

She braces herself, threading her fingers together for something to do with her hands. “Jughead, where did you go last Tuesday? After school?”

He frowns at her. “What?”

“After your first day at school, you left for a couple of hours,” she reminds him. “Where did you go? When you said you had stuff to do.”

“Why?” he asks. She stays silent, waits for an answer, and after a moment he continues. “Uh… I went to Pop’s. You know, the diner?”

“Yeah, I know it,” she says.

“Okay. Well, that’s where I went. Why?” he asks again, and he’s definitely not smiling anymore.

Going to Pop’s doesn’t exactly go hand in hand with ‘stuff to do’, so Betty presses on. “Can anyone confirm you were there?”

Jughead pulls a confused face. “What the hell is going on Betty?”

She hesitates. For the longest time she wavers between what she knows and what she _believes_. And then she tells him everything that Kevin told her, about the stolen drugs, about the different leads and how it’s finally come back to Jughead again.

“The police are on their way?” he asks sharply. “Right now?”

“Right now,” she confirms, then gets her phone out. He looks just about ready to turn around and escape through the window, so she puts a hand on his arm. “Wait,” she says, putting the phone to her ear.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling mom.”

 

* * *

 

 

Five minutes later they're in the living room, waiting for the doorbell to ring. It took some convincing, but now Jughead is sitting on the couch, one leg jumping nervously. Betty paces the distance between him and the TV a few times, then forces herself to sit in an armchair.

“I should just go,” says Jughead, starting to get up again.

Betty leans forward to put her hand on his knee. “You really shouldn’t.”

“Trust me, it’ll be much more pleasant for everyone involved if I just go down there myself.”

“No! They don’t know we know they’re coming,” she reminds him. “Besides, it's not like they can _do_ anything before mom gets here.” She tries her best to sound reassuring.

“They can and they have,” says Jughead. “You saw what they did at the Twilight. If I leave now you can save yourselves that at least.”

“Stop it,” says Betty, surprised at the sharpness in her own voice. “First of all, I know the Sheriff. I can talk to him. Secondly, if you're innocent-”

“I've got nothing to fear, right?” Jughead snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “You don't get it, do you? You've lived your whole life like this, Betty. Big house, expensive furniture, cushy with the cops. I _know_ Keller too, probably better than you do. I bet you've never seen his kneecap up close the way I have, for instance.” He's pinning her with his glare, his jaw set. “Have you ever had the cops barge in on your sister’s birthday party and drag your dad away in cuffs? Have you ever been randomly accused of stealing your own bike and had it confiscated for four weeks, only to have to walk down to the station yourself to get it back? At the age of eleven? Have you ever been stopped outside school three times in one week to get patted down by your _friendly_ neighborhood cop? No? You don't _get_ it, Betty, and chances are you never will.”

By the time he’s finished his little speech, Betty is quietly fuming, fists trembling in her lap.

“I don’t–” she begins, and then the doorbell rings. She allows herself one deep breath, trying to relax her fingers. “Please, let me try to handle this,” she says.

Jughead seems to size her up for a couple of seconds. Then he nods once, before leaning back in the sofa, pulling one leg up under him.

The Sheriff looks grim when Betty opens the door.

“Mr. Keller, how do you do?” she asks sweetly.

“It’s Sheriff Keller today, Betty,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the two uniformed officers behind him. “I’m afraid this isn’t a courtesy call. We’re looking for Forsythe Jones. Or Jughead, whichever he goes by now.”

She pretends to look surprised. “Why, is he in any kind of trouble?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you, Miss Cooper. We’ll also need to search the premises.” He waves what she assumes is a search warrant briefly in front of her. Then he leans a little closer, lowering his voice. “I'm sorry about this, Betty, but we have good reason your new tenant may have brought his old life with him.”

“Okay, but he's not a tenant,” she says, firmly, but with a smile. “We’re a foster home, not a bed and breakfast, so I think you should probably talk to mom about this.”

The Sheriff gives a little huff of annoyance “Oh, we will, but for now we really need to get on with business. You can tell Alice to come down to the station once we’ve talked to him.” He starts pushing her out of the way, gently, but uncompromisingly.

“I really suggest you talk to mom _first_ ,” she says, barely resisting the urge to push back.

“Don’t make this difficult, Betty,” Keller says, walking inside.

She skips ahead, walks backwards towards the living room, eyes fixed on him, focusing on her smile. Behind him, she can see one of the two officers heading upstairs while the other starts pulling out drawers in the cabinet they keep hats and gloves in.

“It’s not difficult at all,” she says, coming to a stop when her legs bump against the sofa where Jughead is sitting. “Do you want me to call her for you?”

The Sheriff narrows his eyes as he looks over her shoulder, and Betty is praying hard that Jughead will keep his cool. She can see a muscle in Keller’s jaw working. “I haven’t got time for this,” he grunts.

“Betty, just–” Jughead starts behind her. He sounds utterly resigned.

“I’m sure she’ll be home any minute,” Betty chirps, breaking him off. “She _always_ comes home around this time. Coffee while you wait?”

“I’m sorry about this,” says Keller, stepping around her. “Forsythe Jones - Jughead - I’m going to need to you to come with me to the station and have another chat.” Betty feels her heart sink as he unhooks the handcuffs from his belt, reaches over to grab Jughead’s arm and twists it behind his back; the rapid clicking of metal as he tightens the bonds sounds terrifyingly final.

And then, like an avenging angel, Alice Cooper steps over the threshold, an angry blush creeping its way up her neck, her windswept hair a halo backlit by the setting sun through the open door. Betty has never loved the sight of her more.

“What's going on here?” Alice demands, snatching Polly's old bike helmet out of the hands of the officer in the hallway before storming on into the living room.

Sheriff Keller closes his eyes briefly with a sigh before turning around to face her. “Good evening, Alice. Unfortunately, I’ve got some bad news about your lodger.”

At the sight of the handcuffs, Alice draws herself up menacingly, and Betty half expects smoke to come billowing out her nostrils. “First things first, _Tom_ ,” she says, voice icy cold. “Jughead is my _ward_. He is seventeen years old and you will unhand him this instant.”

“Alice…”

“Don’t _Alice_ me! Do you want this on the front page tomorrow, Keller?” she hisses. “God knows I’ve turned a blind eye before, but this is _personal_.”

The two of them lock gazes for a few moments, and while Betty can tell Jughead is holding his breath, she already knows that her mom has won this round. With a frustrated grunt, the Sheriff leans down to free Jughead again. Then, a muffled thump from upstairs makes them all turn their heads up in unison.

“That’s, uhh…” Sheriff Keller begins.

“I think I can guess, but you’re more than welcome to personally introduce me,” says Alice, then turns to Betty and Jughead. “Don’t go anywhere. Especially not in the company of uniformed men.” She whirls around and heads for the stairs, leaving the Sheriff no choice but to trail after her.

Betty sinks down on the sofa next to Jughead, the tension draining from her limbs.

“Wow,” says Jughead with an uncertain laugh. “Remind me to never get on her bad side.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure she even has a good side,” says Betty. She feels a little light-headed, and tries to remember if or what she had for lunch.

“Jesus, Betty,” says Jughead then.

She looks at him, confused. “What?”

He’s wide-eyed, staring at her lap, and his arm twitches to move towards her. “Your _hands_.”

Automatically, she turns her palms up to look at them and, _shit_ , it’s bad. “Oh!” she says, quickly curling them into fists again. “That’s just…”

She looks around her, makes sure there’s no marks on the sofa, then gets up unsteadily and walks the short distance to the kitchen. The cool water feels good on her skin, and she’s grateful for the dark sink; washing blood off her hands in the bathroom always looks so overblown and dramatic.

“Do you need anything?” she hears Jughead say behind her.

“Nope,” she says without turning around, silently wishing him away, wishing herself away from this awkwardness.

“Like a band-aid or…”

“I’m fine.”

She unravels a length of kitchen roll and pats her hands dry; the paper stings her palms, and she crumples it into a ball, pressing it quickly against the swallow wounds, patting the blood away. Jughead hovers nearby. She can feel his unease, his eyes on the back of her neck, making the hair there stand on end. She draws a shaking breath.

“It just happens sometimes,” she says.

“Okay.” He leans against the counter, slipping into her line of sight. Their eyes meet, briefly, before he looks away again, adjusting his beanie a little, pulling at his hair. “Hey, guess what?” he asks, his voice unnaturally gleeful.

“What?” she says.

“I’m _famished_.”

Betty snorts. “I could have guessed that, actually,” she says, inspecting her palms to find the cuts glistening but no longer bleeding.

“Chicken salad sandwich?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I mean, who knows - I might be locked up in time for dinner and you’ll be forced to eat zoodles or a kale omelet or whatever evil Trader Joe’s shit Mrs. C comes up with when she doesn’t have me to feed.”

She can’t help but smile; it’s frail and shaky, and the little laugh that slips her is frighteningly close to a sob, but the feeling in her chest is one of relief. “Sure. Chicken salad sandwich sounds… amazing, to be honest.”

When Alice comes to fetch them the sandwiches are long gone and Sheriff Keller looks like he's munched his way through an entire net of lemons.

“It seems like we'll have to make an appearance at the station,” says Alice. “I'm driving you down there,” she adds when Jughead gives her a nervous glance.

“I'm coming too,” says Betty quickly. “As a… witness.”

Before her mom can find some reason to make her stay behind, Betty resolutely walks down the hall to put her shoes on.

She gets into the backseat of mom's car along with Jughead who’s back to being silently surly under his hat. For the first time since he moved in she's hit by the realization that he really isn't just a house guest, but mom’s ward. He looks younger than usual, she thinks; too young to be roughly dragged from his home in handcuffs on what seems to be extremely flimsy grounds.

“What's going to happen now?” she asks.

“Who knows?” he shrugs.

“Here’s what’ll happen,” says Alice, steering towards town. “You'll stay quiet and I'll do the talking until your lawyer turns up.”

“I don't have a lawyer,” he says with a frown.

“Not yet, no. Betty, I never thought I'd say this, but tonight is an excellent time to call in any favors you might have with the Lodges.”

 

* * *

 

Betty doesn't have to call in favors with Ronnie. A simple question is all it takes before she’s in full business mode, sending a seemingly neverending stream of information on developments via text. Ten minutes after they’ve sat down in the waiting room at the station, a rotund, slightly winded middle-aged man with wispy, black hair and a briefcase jogs in.

“Alice Cooper?” he huffs. “Elizabeth? And…” he looks down at a post-it note in his hand. “Jug… Uh, Mr. Jones?”

“Present,” says Jughead, raising his hand in an ironic gesture.

“I’m Mateo Martinez, and I’m your attorney.” He extends his hand, and Jughead stares at it.

Alice grabs it instead. “Alice Cooper. I’m his guardian. We have some things to talk about.”

“Wait,” says Jughead, breaking them off. “How much is all of this going to cost me?”

“It’s all being taken care of by Miss Lodge,” says Martinez.

Betty gives Jughead an encouraging smile, but to her surprise he rolls his eyes before looking away with a frown. “Are you okay?” she asks quietly while her mom pulls the attorney to the side to talk.

“Oh, terrific,” he says. “Splendid. Positively _fantabulous_.”

She hesitates. She wants to ask what’s wrong, but the very obvious answer is that, _duh_ , they’re at the police station and he’s apparently a suspect in a major drug crime. Still, there’s something else, something that she worries has to do with her. Before she can make up her mind about asking him, Alice comes back.

“It’s time for us to go in now,” she says, and Jughead sighs before slowly getting to his feet.

Betty stands up as well, but her mom motions to her to sit down again. “You’ll stay here,” she says firmly. “Hopefully it won’t take too long.”

Before they disappear down the corridor, Jughead turns around to look back at her. Betty holds a hand up, fingers crossed; he gives her a wry smile in response, and then he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

It takes _far_ too long. Betty spends the first couple of hours typing up some homework on her phone, drinking a cup of tar-like coffee from a stained jug and eating half a bag of trail mix from the vending machine. By eleven o’clock she’s alone in the waiting room, and her eyes are drooping. She surreptitiously takes her shoes off and pulls her legs up underneath her, and when the receptionist continues to ignore her, she eventually scoots down into a half-lying position, using her jacket as a makeshift cover.

It's Jughead who wakes her up, shaking her shoulder gently. She looks up at him, bleary-eyed. “What time is it?” she asks quickly, trying to sound more awake than she feels.

“Half past five in the morning.”

“Cripes,” she yawns, then suddenly remembers where she is and what’s going on. She shuffles upright. “How'd it go? Where's mom?”

“She's signing some forms, she'll be out in a minute,” says Jughead. “As for me, I'm a free man.”

“Thank God,” says Betty and stretches. Her back protests, and one of her arms is tingling from her sleeping in an awkward position.

“Thank your mom and Veronica Lodge, more like,” Jughead says, and there it is again; that faint hint of bitterness.

Alice emerges from the reception with a triumphant smile on her lips and a menacing spring in her step. It's hard to believe she's been up for nearly twenty-four hours. “I need to go into the office,” she says excitedly, handing Betty her car keys. “Can you get yourselves home? Elizabeth, I hope you got enough sleep to go to school today?”

“Absolutely,” she lies.

“Jughead…” Alice starts with a doubtful look at him.

“Don't worry,” he says. “I'm well versed in the art of sleeping with my eyes open.”

“Well then. I'll see you tonight.” Alice takes a moment to hurriedly fuss over Betty's hair and patting it down before striding off. Betty can practically smell the singed edges of a front page on fire trailing after her.

“Are you sure you’re up for going to school?” Betty asks Jughead.

“Trust me, I’ve had worse nights,” he says. “A shower and a couple of thousand calories and I’ll be right as rain.”

“A couple of _thousand_? You ate all the bacon already, remember?”

He grins at her. “All of _your_ bacon, yes.”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, they’re showered and changed and Jughead is on his second cheeseburger. The Choc’lit Shoppe is open twenty-four seven, and it’s surprisingly crowded; a good number of truckers are tucking into hash browns and eggs, and a handful of locals are queuing up at the register, looking for a hot coffee and shelter from the pouring rain. Or, in the case of Jughead, an obscene amount of food. Betty grabs a fry from the tray and pops it in her mouth.

“I can’t believe you’re having burgers at seven in the morning,” she says.

“And I can’t believe you’ve never had dinner for breakfast,” Jughead mumbles as he chews.

“So…” says Betty, stirring her smoothie with the straw. “What happened back there?”

He shrugs. “Turns out they had no real evidence of anything. It was guesswork that led them back to me again. They asked a bunch of questions about dad that I’d already answered. I'm like a scab they can't help but pick at. Apparently the fact that I’ve barely spoken to FP these past two years is a difficult concept to grasp. Oh, your mom managed to sniff out the part about the stolen evidence, much to Keller’s dismay.”

Betty nods thoughtfully. “So that’s what’s going on the front page,” she says. “What about the drugs though? Did you find anything out that we didn’t already know?”

Jughead pauses with the burger halfway to his mouth. “Why should I care?” he says with a frown.

She rubs her thumb along her palm; the skin is red, irritated, and when she sees his eyes on her hands, she stops, folding them around the cool glass in front of her instead. “There’s something fishy about it all, don’t you think? I got the impression from Kevin that his boyfriend was pretty shocked about the arrest, and the sheer quantity of cocaine. And now it’s missing.”

“It’s none of my business, Betty,” says Jughead firmly. “And none of yours either.”

“Someone knew about the drugs,” says Betty, refusing to let it go.

Jughead pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Obviously someone knew,” he says. “Lots of people probably knew. I mean, dad is a drunken deadbeat and a disreputable gang member, and I have no doubt he’s had his fair share of snow days, but _no one_ keeps that much blow for personal use.”

“So, a courier? Then why hasn’t there been more arrests?”

“Just leave it,” he snaps. “The Southside doesn’t work like that. You don’t snitch to the cops.”

“Maybe he’d talk to you?” she suggests.

“It’s nothing to do with me,” says Jughead, angrily crushing the greasy burger wrapper into a ball with his fists. “More to the point, I don’t _want_ to talk to him.”

Betty bites her lip. “Sorry,” she says. “I just–”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts her. “You care, I get it. Truth, justice, the whole enchilada. But where I’m from, it doesn’t _work_ like that. Dad’s in jail now, and you can bet he did _something_ to deserve it. Ergo, none of our business.”

They’re quiet for a while, Jughead staring out the rain-streaked windows while Betty absentmindedly picks at her scars. “You keep telling me I don’t understand the Southside,” she says then. “And maybe I don’t. To me, Riverdale is Riverdale, but you make it sound like we’re worlds apart.”

Jughead raises his eyebrows with an ironic little quirk that should infuriate her, but she’s beginning to suspect he’s right.

“So show me,” she says.

He lets out a hollow laughter. “Yeah, no, the guided tour was a joke.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re a decent writer–”

“Thanks,” he says sarcastically.

“Okay, a _good_ writer,” she says, and with the help of an editor it probably won’t even be stretching the truth. “Write about this for the Blue and Gold. A column. An editorial. Anything you like.”

Jughead leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “A sob story for the school paper?”

“ _Is_ it a sob story? Because you don’t have to make it one if you don’t want to.”

He studies her face, holds her gaze until she wants to squirm in her seat. “I’ll think about it,” he says eventually, getting to his feet, ready to leave. Then he raises a warning finger. “It won’t be pretty. It’ll be _raw_. You probably won’t like it.”

As they drive towards school, he keeps adding items to his list of things she’ll dislike, and she knows he’ll do more than just think about it.


	8. Suck and Blow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Diokomen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diokomen/pseuds/Diokomen) and [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily) for your invaluable feedback.
> 
> (Also thank you to anyone still reading. I expect we'll reach the end of this some time around the year 2033.)

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper and the time we almost kissed._

_It sounds so simple when you hear it. A boy and a girl, thrown together under strange circumstances, sleeping wall-to-wall, having heart-to-hearts in the dead of the night. Two teenagers, rich and poor, good and bad, north and south, and you know what they say about opposites, right?_

_Magnetic. I have no other words for the attraction I felt. It was as incomprehensible as it was inevitable, and the strangest thing was that she seemed to be pulling me in of her own free will. But magnets have a way of stubbornly flipping around and bouncing off one another when they get too close, and for every secret smile, and every small touch, there was something in me that wanted to turn my back on her and run._

Don’t get in too deep. _The story of my life, neatly packed into five little words. Words to live by, so I don’t die. No, don’t worry, I’m not unwell; I mean it in the most literal sense. With the company my dad kept, the Jones wardrobe tended towards black, if you catch my drift._

_As for the kissing, I wasn’t really planning on letting it get that far. It’s a nice enough thought to entertain, and I’d be lying if I said the little dance we’d been doing wasn’t fun, but Jughead Jones knows better. At least I thought I knew better, until I saw her kissing someone else._

 

* * *

 

After an hour’s AP English with Mr. Hernandez, it becomes apparent that Betty and Jughead handle lack of sleep in wildly different ways. Betty is answering questions even faster than usual, her hand shooting into the air so quickly that Hernandez starts calling her Miss Granger. Meanwhile, Jughead is half-asleep, pretending to read his notes while resting his head in his hand. At break time, Betty collapses in a couch while he downs two energy drinks in rapid succession before drifting over to the games corner.

Two redheaded pinball enthusiasts are craning their necks to watch Jughead try his hand at Medieval Madness while Betty looks on from where she’s half-lying. She’s pleased to see that Archie is particularly invested in making sure his newly found gaming protegee isn’t losing out on quarters unnecessarily.

“You see, the trick is to let it drop onto the flipper and just slide down for a second–” begins Archie.

“More like a fraction of a second,” says Ethel.

“About halfway down.”

“I’d say just a little further than halfway down…”

“Okay, okay,” says Jughead impatiently, shouldering them both off before hammering away at the buttons again.

The approaching sound of designer heels clicking rapidly across the floor makes Betty turn around just before Veronica calls her name. She’s got Kevin in tow, and the two of them look like an intervention in the making.

“Tell us everything,” says Ronnie under her breath, primly sitting herself down on the table.

Betty glances over her shoulder at Jughead; he looks completely engrossed in his button-smashing. “First of all, thank you _so_ much for helping us out,” she says. Then she turns to Kevin. “How much have you told her?”

“Uh, well…” he says, his mouth twisting into an uncomfortable grin.

“I know what he knows,” says Veronica, waving dismissively at him. “My _God_ , Betty!” she says, lowering her voice and throwing a quick look at Jughead. “Your delectable delinquent certainly doesn’t skimp on the drama.”

“Delectable?” says Kevin, leaning forward. “Am _I_ missing something here, Betty?”

“ _No_ ,” hisses Betty, glaring at Ronnie, who rolls her eyes playfully. “Anyway, apparently there was no hard evidence.”

“Dad was practically frothing at the mouth when he got in this morning. He wouldn’t tell me anything, just went straight to bed.”

Betty shrugs and shakes her head. “I can’t tell you much either. I spent the night in the waiting room and eventually they let him go. Personally, I think something about this whole case stinks, but Jughead is too stubborn to talk to his dad about it. So it’s a dead end. And I don’t know _if_ there’s anything to worry about, but...” Thinking about it is like an itch that she’s not allowed to scratch. Then she realizes there’s another possibility. “Kevin…” she begins.

“I know,” he interrupts. “You’re right that there’s something off about all of this, and I’ve decided already. I’ll talk to Joaquin.”

It feels as though a heavy stone is lifted from her chest, and she breaks into the day's first honest smile. “Thank you,” she says emphatically.

Then the bell rings, heralding the next class; PE outdoors in the rain if she knows Coach Clayton.

“Don't forget to kiss and make up,” says Veronica to Kevin before pulling Betty up from the couch while a reluctant Jughead gets bodily removed from the pinball machine by Archie.

“I take it Kevin told you about his boyfriend,” says Betty as she and Ronnie make their way towards the changing rooms.

“Indeed. He’s been keeping that one under wraps! But once he gathered that I was semi involved in this business with Jughead, the floodgates opened.” Veronica smiles smugly, mimicking swinging doors with her hands. “And speaking of bad boy beaus… How _are_ things with you and Jughead?”

Against her every ounce of willpower, Betty can feel herself going red. “There _is_ no me and Jughead,” she says as calmly as she can muster.

Veronica tuts. “I can see your lips moving, B, but I can't hear what they're saying over the massive heart-eyes you keep giving him.”

Betty cringes inwardly; Ronnie knows her too well. “Fine, he's cute,” she mutters. “And we _may_ have almost had half a moment of _something_ the other night.” Then she bites her lip. “Okay, how obvious is it?”

“Not very,” says Veronica lightly. “Kevin will figure it out soon enough, if he hasn’t already, because... well, he’s Kevin.”

“Again, it’s not like anything has actually _happened_.”

Veronica sneaks her hand into the crook of Betty’s arm. “All in due time, Betty. Now tell me everything about this _moment_.”

 

* * *

 

Betty isn’t allowed time off from her schedule to attend the debate between the candidates for the school election, but once their Algebra class finishes, she drags Jughead off to wait outside the assembly hall where it’s held. They arrive just as the first years start filing out, closely followed by Mr. Hernandez who stops to have a word.

“An intense debate,” he says, pulling an amused face. “I thought I could detect some Cooperisms in Miss Lodge’s closing statement?”

“It’s a team effort,” says Betty bashfully.

Hernandez turns to Jughead. “Are you a part of the team as well, Jones?”

Jughead glances at Betty. “I don’t get involved in school politics,” he says.

“I see. Not interested in democracy?”

“I’m not interested in perpetuating a system that benefits the same clique year after year,” Jughead says bluntly. “Besides, the idea that a school president has any kind of real power is an illusion, serving merely to placate bourgeoisie kids who need constant reassurance that their place in the world is at the top.”

“Ah,” says Hernandez, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I can see now where the poignant analysis of Gatsby is coming from. And here come the candidates!”

He makes way for Cheryl, Veronica and Dilton who emerge from the assembly, and gives Betty and Jughead an ironic salute before disappearing down the corridor.

Cheryl is fuming, an angry blush eating its way through her immaculate makeup. Veronica seems satisfied while Dilton looks like he’s recovering from a Halloween double feature screening at a haunted house.

“I see your charity case cheerleaders have turned up to gloat, Ron-Ron,” spits Cheryl, looking at Betty and Jughead. “A shame you’re a few goons short of a squad.”

“It’s not a popularity contest, Cheryl,” says Veronica mildly.

“Except yeah, it kind of is,” says Jughead, quietly enough that only Betty hears it, and she jabs him with her elbow.

“Spare me your high and mighty kumbaya bullshit,” says Cheryl. “The first years may have been swayed by your inclusive castles in the air, but the rest of the school knows you’ve never been anything but exclusive.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” says Veronica.

“Exclusively a _hag_ ,” says Cheryl through clenched teeth, then flicks her copper curls over her shoulder before stalking off angrily. “Practice starts in twenty-three minutes!” she yells without turning around.

“Okay…” says Betty slowly as the tension in the air starts dissipating. “Dare I even ask?”

“I had one minute and eighteen seconds of speaking time,” complains Dilton, reminding the others of his presence. “I’m going to talk to Principal Weatherbee.”

“You do that, sweetie,” says Ronnie, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. Then she turns to Betty with a wicked grin. “I wouldn’t say I straight up crushed her, but…”

Betty pulls her into a tight hug. “Congratulations, girl! One debate down, two to go!”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” says Veronica, taking a step back. She beams her smile at them. “Ladies and Jugheads, this calls for a celebration, and it just so happens that my mom is out of town. The Pembrooke, tonight after cheer practice. Seven o’clock sharp.”

Betty looks expectantly at Jughead, who puffs his cheeks out, then releases a slow breath. “I don’t know... “ he says. “I was hoping to catch up on some sleep.”

“Sleep is for the weak, Jones,” says Veronica matter-of-factly.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Betty assures him. “Let me just show you the Blue and Gold HQ before I get changed, and then we’ll see.”

They part ways with Veronica, and Betty leads Jughead through the now-deserted corridors towards the school paper’s office.

“You must be so tired,” says Betty. “To be honest I’m surprised you haven’t fallen asleep yet.”

“You didn’t see me in Earth Science earlier. I got a solid forty-five minutes in during a slide presentation.”

They stop in front of the door to the office, and Betty rummages around in her bag for the keys. “I’ll just give you a quick tour and you can go home and crash.” She lets him in, and turns the lights on.

“Nah, I might as well get started on my first piece,” says Jughead, looking around. “I’ll need to drive you anyway.”

She gives him a withering look. “You don’t have to, you know. I was perfectly capable of getting around town before you became my chauffeur.”

He heaves a sigh. “Elizabeth Cooper, I’m not about to risk having din-dins alone with Mrs C, okay? Just come fetch me after you’re done prancing for that red-headed agent of evil.”

With that, he throws himself down on the raggedy two-seat couch in the corner that she’s been meaning to get rid of, props his feet up on the armrest and pulls his laptop from his bag. Betty crinkles her nose in contemplation. She’s pretty sure that her mom wouldn’t bother him - not after last night. Quietly, she wonders if there’s some other reason why he’d rather stay.

“Well… thank you,” she says finally. Then she starts pointing out the features of the office. First, she walks over to their old PC, laying a fond hand on it. “We’ve got a computer here, which is _ancient_ , but it’s the only one with the software needed to print in the right format, so we’re kind of stuck with it… This is the brainstorming board. We usually pin ideas for upcoming articles here, and you're more than welcome to add… Are you listening?” She turns around. “Jughead?”

It’s been less than a minute since he made himself comfortable on the couch, but Jughead’s hand is already lying limp on the floor, and his beanie is all lopsided, presumably having been dislodged as he fell asleep. Betty tip-toes closer, a little smile on her lips. His face is almost pretty when relaxed, the permanent scowl that he wears like an extra item of clothing all but erased. She’s not sure what the deal with the beanie is, exactly, but this is only the second time she’s seen him without it firmly tugged down over his hair. She reminds herself to ask him about it, and soon, because the sight of those loose, dark curls is making her heart speed up a little. Resisting the temptation to adjust the hat, she leaves him to rest and heads for cheer practice.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know,” says Jughead doubtfully.

She'd let him sleep for an extra hour before shaking him awake, and after downing a cup of coffee from the grimy machine in the corridor, he had insisted he was fine and well-rested and definitely capable of driving, perhaps even of coming along to Ronnie’s. Now they’re looking up at the grandiose entrance to The Pembrooke, and he suddenly looks deadly tired again.

“You don’t have to stay,” says Betty. “But you could at least give it a shot? We have to be home in a few hours anyway.”

“I could pick you up. Save you the walk home.”

Betty mentally grits her teeth. She wants him to know that her friends are good people, and _kind_ , even though some of them come from more money than others. “That’s just silly,” she says. “If you do go home, you’re going straight to bed.” It comes out a bit more firm than she means it to, and Jughead raises his hands in defense.

“Okay, nurse Betty.”

“Hey guys!” calls someone. It’s Archie, jogging up behind them, carrying several bags of chips. “Ronnie sent me to get more snacks, there’s a few plus ones here. What are you waiting around out here for? Everyone’s inside already.”

“I was just dropping Betty off,” says Jughead.

Archie’s eyes widens and he shakes his head. “No, dude, come on, don’t leave me alone with the girls!”

“I’m sure you’re more than equipped to handle them,” says Jughead, glancing at Betty.

Thankfully, Archie ignores that, and instead grabs Jughead’s jacket almost desperately. “Ronnie ordered about three hundred bucks’ worth of stuff from Pop’s - who’s going to help me finish all that if you bail on me now?”

“Uh, I guess if you put it that way…” says Jughead, and allows Archie to lead him up the stairs to the veritable mansion that is the Lodge residence.

Inside, there’s music playing, and Archie hurries over to the kitchen bar where Ethel and Veronica are mixing drinks. Betty’s eyes sweep over the room, and there’s more than one unexpected face in the small crowd.

“You made it!” Veronica squeals as she bounces up to them. She gives Betty a kiss on the cheek, and manages to pull an uncooperative Jughead into a one-armed hug.

“What’s Mantle doing here?” he says, glaring at the table where Reggie is playing beer pong with Moose Mason and Midge Klump.

“I was just about to ask the same thing,” says Betty cheerfully.

“I know…” says Veronica, the corner of her mouth pulling down in a _whoops_ face. “But he’s actually been super decent the past week. He did apologize to you, right?”

“He did,” Betty admits. “And he said he was going to vote for you.”

Veronica clasps her hands together. “Right! Which is why he’s here, of course. He’s running a little campaign of his own with the Bulldogs apparently. Between you and me, I think he’s hoping to negotiate some extra funding for the football team.”

“Is that even something that the president is involved in?” says Jughead skeptically.

“I have no idea, but let’s pretend so for the moment, right?” Then she looks behind them, her face morphing into a mask of slight panic disguised as polite surprise. “Kevin!”

Kevin is in the doorway, and half a step behind him a strikingly pretty young man is hovering nervously. His doe eyes and soft smile stand in stark contrast to the fang necklace and leather jacket that he wears.

“This is Joaquin,” says Kevin a little too excitedly, urging him inside.

“ _Love_ ly!” chirps Veronica, giving them each a peck on the cheek and throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder at Reggie. “You’re ever so welcome, Joaquin, I just had no idea we’d be meeting you so _soon_.”

“Betty,” says Betty, extending her hand.

“Joaquin,” says the Southsider. His hand is calloused but warm, and his grip is hesitant; even his voice is genteel. He turns to Jughead, clasps his forearm and brings him into a brief but almost rough embrace. “Juggie,” he says, sounding genuinely happy, and Betty suddenly feels envious of this stranger, who clearly has a connection with Jughead that’s on an entirely different and deeper level to her own.

“Long time no see,” says Jughead with a wry smile.

“Too long,” says Joaquin. “Isn’t it time you…”

They’re interrupted by Reggie, striding up to them with an evil gleam in his eyes. “Someone better call animal control,” he says. “There’s reptiles on the loose.”

“Behave, Reginald,” Veronica scolds.

“I will if they will,” he says.

“You’re not exactly off to a flying start,” mutters Jughead.

“What’s that?” says Reggie loudly.

“ _Guys_ ,” interjects Betty, glaring at the two of them in turn.

“How about drinks?” says Kevin, his voice at least half an octave higher than normal.

He hooks arms with Joaquin, leading the way into the kitchen, and after a stern look from Betty, Jughead follows.

“ _Gay_ reptiles,” snorts Reggie quietly.

“So _what_?” snaps Betty. She can feel her fingers curling into fists, her nails catching on the rough scars in her palms. Taking a deep breath, she forces herself to relax her fingers again.

“Christ,” says Reggie with an oily smile. “It was a _joke_.” He lumbers back off to Moose and Midge, shaking his head slowly.

“Men,” Veronica sighs, seeking Betty’s eyes out apologetically. Then she quickly changes the subject. “But Jughead came!”

“Yep,” says Betty. “If somewhat reluctantly.”

He looks at home now, though, munching away at a box of fries together with Archie.

Veronica regards him critically. “He needs to lighten up. Not to mention _dress_ up. Does he ever take that raggedy old beanie off?”

“Of course he does,” says Betty, offended on his behalf.

“Are his locks as luscious as they look, peeking out like that?” Ronnie asks, and in an instant Betty has forgiven her friend.

“Mm,” she says, wrinkling her nose noncommittally.

Veronica gasps playfully. “Oh my God, they are, aren’t they?”

As though he can feel he’s being watched, Jughead whips his head around and frowns at them, sending the girls into an inevitable fit of giggles. Ears turning a delicate shade of pink, he turns away with a scowl and sips on his Coke, stubbornly refusing to look at them.

 

Jughead, it turns out, doesn’t drink. Betty thinks she can probably hazard a guess why. In any case, it saves her the trouble of talking him out of it, because she knows what mom would be like about it, knows what she was like that time Polly snuck in through the back door tipsy and tripped the broom, making a racket. The rest of them do, though, and it doesn’t take long for the little party to start getting rowdy. This provides some excellent cover for her and Jughead to have a little talk with Kevin and Joaquin.

“This is pointless,” Jughead declares before they’ve even really started, gathered as they are around the snacks table while the others are playing SingStar in the lounge.

“People are waiting for you to come back, you know,” says Joaquin. “There’s an empty seat at the table.”

“They can wait all they want,” Jughead says forcefully. “I’m not my dad.”

Joaquin shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Betty, then evidently deems her worthy of hearing some Southside secrets. “I’ve heard the stories,” he says in a low voice. “Two pounds of C, just lying around in the back of the truck?” He shakes his head. “That’s not right.”

“Which is why he’s going to be locked up for the next fifteen years,” says Jughead as though he’s explaining something to a child.

“That’s not what I mean,” says Joaquin. “I mean, if... _If_ he’d had that amount of dust, he wouldn’t have left it lying around for anyone to find. FP ain’t stupid.”

“Do you think it was planted?” asks Betty.

“The thought has crossed our minds,” says Kevin.

“What’s FP got to say about all of this?” Joaquin asks Jughead.

For second, Jughead looks almost ashamed. “How should I know?” he grumbles.

“You mean you haven’t…” hisses Joaquin, his jaw tensing angrily. “What the _fuck_ , Juggie?”

Jughead doesn’t get a chance to answer, because Archie has brought his guitar out and is calling them over to the living room. They move away from their off-the-cuff council reluctantly. Joaquin shoots Jughead a disappointed look, but evidently decides to drop the issue for now, making himself comfortable on the lush carpet between his fellow Soutshider and Kevin.

Betty remembers sitting like this before, in a circle of friends, listening reverently to Archie’s strumming, hoping against hope that this song or that was really about her. Now, though, she’s preoccupied with thoughts of gang wars and drug deals gone wrong, and of Jughead’s mysterious father, who seems to be at the center of everything.

“Any requests?” asks Archie after a few songs, snapping Betty out of her reverie.

“Wonderwall,” drawls Jughead.

“Sure,” says Archie happily.

“No, I wasn’t...”

“Guys, party games!” Midge shouts, interrupting both of them. “Who’s up for spin the bottle?”

“What are we, twelve?” huffs Reggie and takes a long drink straight from a vodka bottle.

“How about whisper down the lane?” suggests Ethel timidly.

“What’s that?” asks Veronica.

Archie, who has thankfully put the guitar down, jabs her playfully with an elbow. “You know, broken telephone.”

“Oh!” says Ronnie. “A whispering game? I haven’t played one since middle school!”

“In my family we called it snakes in the valley,” says Reggie, glancing over at Jughead and Joaquin with a smirk.

“It’s gorillas in the hills where I’m from,” Jughead shoots back at him.

“I’ll go first,” says Veronica smoothly, then pauses to think before leaning over to whisper in Archie’s ear.

Archie passes the message along to Kevin, who frowns briefly before turning to Joaquin. Betty can almost hear Joaquin mumbling in Jughead’s ear, and then it’s time for her to receive the message. Jughead scoots a little closer and cups his hand over her ear to whisper. His breath is a warm tickle that sends a pleasant shiver down her neck. She’s almost too distracted by his closeness to listen properly, but what she hears sounds something like ‘ _certain statistics say some salamanders are stroppier than others’_.

She raises her eyebrows at Jughead, who simply shrugs. Betty passes it on to Reggie, who whispers to Midge, sitting next to him. Midge gives Reggie a long look before turning to Moose, who in turn whispers in Ethel’s ear. Ethel hesitates, glancing back down the line, then leans over to pass the message back to Veronica. The look on Ronnie’s face as she hears it is perhaps best described as arctic.

“Certain statistics say summer sandals are strappier than others,” she says slowly. “That’s what the original sentence was. I won’t even repeat what I got back, but it was _nothing_ like it. She looks at them all in turn. “I don’t know _who_ it was, but let me make one thing very clear. This is a party celebrating _me_. Not a slanderfest dedicated to making Cheryl Blossom look bad.”

_Cheryl Blossom?_ Betty lets her gaze wander over the faces to her left; Reggie, Midge, Moose and Ethel - one of them clearly changed the message.

“Dude, chill, it’s just a game,” says Moose, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“I’m just making that one hundred percent clear,” says Ronnie, enunciating every word carefully.

“Sorry, it was a bad suggestion,” says Ethel quietly.

“Agreed,” says Reggie firmly. “Time to switch things up.” He whips out what looks like a business card. No doubt it's his own. “Let's play suck…” He puts the cards against his lips and inhales, the light grey rectangle sticking to his mouth as he sucks in air. Then he blows forcefully, and the card sails off to land in the middle of their little circle. “...and blow,” he finishes dramatically.

Without further ado, he picks it up again, presses it to his mouth and turns to Betty.

“Woah,” she says, leaning back a little.

The business card falls between them, and Reggie grins.

“You know the rules, Betts,” he says, moving closer.

“I wasn't prepared,” she says with a disarming smile and picks up the card. She looks around. “We all agree we’re playing?” she asks, and is met by a general murmur of approval, so she turns to Jughead.

“I think-” he starts, but by then she’s already pressed the card against her lips, so he quickly leans over and takes it, his nose bumping lightly against hers for a brief, thrilling moment before he turns and passes it on to Joaquin without incident.

Kevin more or less refuses to even try taking the card from Joaquin, leaving his poor boyfriend sucking in air and pulling at Kevin’s arm until he finally lets out an explosive breath that sends the card flying halfway across the room. The subsequent kiss leads to whooping and cheering around the circle, and the sweetness of Joaquin’s sheepish grin seems to win even Reggie over.

“Sorry,” whispers Betty to Jughead as the game continues. “You weren’t prepared.”

“It’s fine,” he says, but his expression is unreadable.

The card makes its way back to Reggie, who holds it up in the air. “One measly kiss, between what I can only assume is an established couple. Bad turnout, folks. I guess you all truly suck.” He snickers at his own joke. “Once more, with feeling,” he says, starting the game again, now to his left where Midge is sitting.

This time, the card slips and falls between Veronica and Archie. Ronnie looks up at him through her lashes in a way that still, after all this time, makes Betty’s insides squirm uncomfortably.

“For old time’s sake?” says Veronica.

The kiss starts out passionate, and Betty doesn’t know how it ends, because she forces herself to look away, down at her hands. She spreads her fingers, inspects her nails, vaguely aware of the giggles around her.

“ _Nice_ ,” says Reggie finally, and Betty reluctantly deems it safe to tip her head up again.

Archie’s cheeks are dusted in scarlet, and Veronica looks smug; doubtless it was one for the books. The card, however, moves on, and so must Betty as she realizes that it’s soon her turn to take it from Jughead. _What if he drops it,_ she thinks. _What if_ I _drop it_. The worms in her belly turn to butterflies as she wonders if and how she could do it on purpose, but without it showing. There’s no time, though, and suddenly she’s leaning in, pressing her lips against his, the only barrier between them a flimsy piece of paper.

The mistake Betty makes is looking into his eyes. They’re soft, almost amused, and there’s a hint of the same _what if_ she just asked herself, and it throws her off completely. She’s already started turning away when she realizes that she’s forgetting to suck. The card slides off her lips, and she fumbles for it, but it’s too late.

“Why Elizabeth,” purrs Reggie. “I knew we’d end up here eventually.”

This time there's no escaping him, so Betty smiles politely and goes in for a light peck on the lips. Reggie, however, has other plans. He locks his hand firmly behind her neck and presses his mouth against hers. She makes a surprised noise which he apparently takes as encouragement, because the next thing she can feel is his tongue against her lips. Partly out of confusion and partly to avoid making things awkward, she gives in to the kiss, and for a couple of seconds things are messy, bewildering and awfully wet. He tastes of alcohol, and his tongue wiggles around like a trapped mouse until she forces it back out with her own and pulls away.

“Damn, Betty,” he says with a grin when it's over.

She gives an embarrassed cough and delicately wipes the side of her mouth with a finger, trying to avoid the curious glances from her friends. She especially doesn’t want to look at Archie, because she can’t think of a single facial expression of his that she would want to see right now. The only safe option seems to be Jughead, and when she peeks his way, he’s studying the backs of his hands, seemingly completely disinterested. Suddenly, she’s wishing for nothing more than this stupid game to end. As luck would have it, a distraction arrives promptly in the doorway in the form of Hiram Lodge. As per usual, he’s dressed immaculately, tonight sporting classic designer slacks and a crisp grey shirt. Following at his heels like a shadow is a lanky man with a backslick and a smart suit.

“Ronnie dearest,” says Mr. Lodge, his eyes sweeping over the room. Betty’s heart skips a beat as she realizes there’s Solo cups and beer cans all over the floor and the table nearby.

“Yes, dad?” asks Veronica sweetly, subtly inching away from Archie.

The collective terror of ten teenagers practically buzzes in the air, but Hiram Lodge seems utterly unconcerned by the mess. “Does your mother know you’re entertaining on a Tuesday?”

“It's just some friends from school,” she says innocently. Then she gives him a sly smile. “We're celebrating my win in the debate today.”

Hiram’s face turns eager in the blink of an eye. “So you showed that Blossom girl that the Lodges still run Riverdale, huh? In that case, there's some Cristal in the fridge…”

A slight movement to her right draws Betty’s attention from Ronnie and her father; it’s Joaquin, seemingly doing his best to hide behind Kevin. She meets his eyes briefly and there’s a hint of panic in them. Jughead is side-eyeing him as well, evidently just as confused as Betty.

“What?” Jughead hisses to Joaquin, who manages to somehow shake his head using only his eyes.

Betty forces herself to look away and back at Veronica, who against all odds, seems to be in no trouble at all.

“I won’t be home before you’re in bed,” says Hiram, leaning down to give his daughter a quick kiss on the head. “And I trust that if I’m inclined to check, it’ll be occupied by _one_ person,” he adds, digging his eyes into Archie.

“ _Dad_!” says Veronica, giving a slightly strained giggle.

Mr. Lodge saunters off with his silent companion in tow, and once they’re out of earshot, the room breathes a collective sigh.

“Spin the bottle!” calls Reggie.

“I thought you said that was for twelve-year olds?” says Midge.

“I guess I just drank myself back in time,” says Reggie, pouring the last few drops of vodka into a glass and knocking it back. He pushes the empty bottle to the middle of the floor.

“New drinks first,” shouts Moose.

As people begin to mill about, Kevin leans over towards Betty and Jughead. “We need another word with you guys,” he says, and Joaquin nods silently.

They withdraw to the kitchen once more under the pretense of getting more snacks.

“That guy,” says Joaquin, sounding almost frightened. “I know him.”

“Who _doesn’t_ know Hiram Lodge?” says Jughead in a muffled voice, his mouth full of chips. Kevin gives him an unimpressed frown and Jughead shrugs. “What? They’re there!” he says, motioning at the bowl.

“Not _him_ ,” says Joaquin. “The other guy. He’s been coming around to the Wyrm at least once a week lately. Spending a lot of time with FP. Until the bust, that is.”

Betty’s ears prick up. “Who is he?”

Joaquin leans in closer. “I’ve never talked to him personally, never heard his real name,” he says, “but we call him _El Dinero_.”

“It means ‘the money’,” says Kevin. “I’ve been learning some Spanish,” he smiles, sharing a look with Joaquin.

“He gives instructions to FP, FP tells us what to do, we do it, and money appears,” explains Joaquin.

“And you never asked any questions?” asks Betty.

Joaquin blinks in confusion. “No?” he says.

“I’ve been trying to tell her,” says Jughead tiredly.

“What kind of stuff did you do for him?” she prods.

“ _Betty_ ,” hisses Jughead.

“It’s okay,” says Joaquin. “Jughead, it wasn’t ever anything serious. Some weed here, a broken shop window there…”

Betty’s chews her lip nervously; it may not be possession of the first degree, but it still sounds pretty serious to her.

“Yeah, whatever,” says Jughead, fiddling with his soda bottle. “Just goes to prove that dad was on the wrong path.”

“The drugs,” says Joaquin eagerly. “I was going to talk to you about that, because I don’t–”

“Are you playing?” says Veronica cheerfully, walking slightly unsteadily up to the table, and the odd foursome draws apart awkwardly. “We’re about to bring out the bubbly.”

The thought of being tricked into locking lips with Reggie again is mildly repulsive, and Betty pulls an apologetic face. “It’s getting late, actually...” she says, digging around in her pocket for her phone.

“Yeah, I was trying to tell you earlier, but you were too busy swapping spit with Mr. Mantle,” says Jughead. “It’s a quarter past ten already.”

She doesn’t even have the time to think of a comeback, because suddenly, all worries of Hiram Lodge being friends with Southside crooks are dispelled in favor of the looming threat of house arrest for a month. “Crap!” she exclaims, scanning the phone screen frantically. At least there’s no messages from her mother, which hopefully means she’s fallen asleep after last night’s endeavors in jail.

“So we’re leaving?” Jughead asks.

“Of course we’re leaving!” snaps Betty, and grabs Veronica’s arms firmly, eyeballing her. “If anyone asks, we already left. Half an hour ago. At _least_ half an hour ago.”

  



	9. Truth or Dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm deeply thankful to my beta, Diokomen, for looking this over. 
> 
> I felt like a freaking medium when I first heard about the deleted scene where Jughead moves in with the Coopers, and I know that's what brought a few people here. Now, there's been talk lately of a certain _other_ deleted scene, and I would just like to add, for the record, that this chapter was originally written in _July_. Just, you know, for the record.

* * *

 

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper, and about me, and how the stillness of the evenings softened our edges and enveloped all doubts in velvety shadows until our hearts dared to beat in time. As different as she and I were on the surface, we had this in common; when night fell, so did the walls we put up during the day. We were vespertine, and under the cover of darkness, anything felt possible._

 

* * *

 

At twenty to eleven, after Jughead has been on his worst Southside behavior, speeding all the way home, Betty edges the front door open slowly.

“I don’t even know why we’re sneaking in,” she says to Jughead in a hushed voice. “If she’s up we’ll be in trouble no matter how quiet we are.”

“Do you think she’s up?” Jughead whispers. “Surely she must sleep at some point. Or is she like a dragon, one eye open at all times?”

Betty snorts softly at that. “She might have worked herself into a coma. Or, if she’s been at the Ambien we could safely continue the party here. Let me go check.”

She kicks her shoes off and heads for the stairs, but then Jughead gives a low whistle. She turns around, and he’s motioning at her to come back, eyes on something in the living room.

“What?” she says.

“Shh." He nods at the sofa.

Alice is lying there, mouth slightly open, her laptop on her chest and an empty wine glass on the table.

Betty stifles a giggle, then shoos Jughead up the stairs. “Go, go,” she whispers. “I’ll be up in a minute.” Once he’s out of earshot, she walks up to her mom and puts a hand on her knee. “Hey,” she says gently.

“Hmm?” says Alice, abruptly sitting up. The computer slides off her, but she manages to catch it before it crashes to the floor.

“I was just going to say goodnight. I’m going to bed now.”

“What time is it? When did you get back?”

And this is when Betty has to gamble. “Just gone half past ten,” she says. “We got back an hour ago or so. You were sleeping so sweetly, we didn’t want to wake you.”

Alice clears her throat and pulls her fingers through her hair quickly only to get them tangled in her glasses, perched on her head. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was just resting my eyes. Where’s Jughead?”

Betty purses her lips, trying her hardest not to smile. “I think he’s getting ready for bed as well,” she says, just about managing to keep her voice neutral. “Okay, well… Goodnight, mom.”

“Night, sweetie,” says her mom, putting her glasses on and opening the laptop.

When she comes upstairs, Jughead’s door is open. It looks almost like an invitation, so she drifts over and knocks on the doorpost. Jughead is sitting on the bed and he glances up from his phone.

“We safe?” he asks.

“Yep,” says Betty from the doorway. “She thinks we got back an hour ago.”

“Yeah…” He seems to hesitate, fiddling aimlessly with the mobile. “I've been thinking. Maybe I should talk to dad after all.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding encouragingly.

“After what Joaquin said about that guy… I have to agree with you Betty. There's something fishy about this whole thing.”

“About what?”

Betty jumps at the sound of her mom’s voice behind her. “Nothing,” she says, turning to her. “Just...”

“We’re talking about dad,” says Jughead bluntly. “Do you think he was framed?”

Alice wedges herself between Betty and the half-open door. “It’s possible,” she says. “Why, do you know something you didn’t tell the Sheriff last night?”

Betty gives him a barely perceptible shake of the head. This is Veronica’s _father_ they’re talking about, and she doesn’t need her mom jumping to conclusions.

“No,” says Jughead after a pause no longer than a heartbeat. “Just an inkling. And… I mean, I’m the one with visitation rights, so I thought I’d ask him about it.”

Alice raises her chin and narrows her eyes. “FP spent his one call making sure I’d keep you out of harm’s way, Jughead,” she says. “I’m not convinced this is a good idea.”

Not for the first time, Betty wonders about the connection between her mom and Jughead’s dad. It feels like they’ve come a long way from the ‘charity case’ angle Alice played up initially.

“It’s my dad, I have a right to see him,” Jughead says, his reluctance from five seconds ago immediately flipping into defiance.

“Of course,” says Alice in a voice that says _we’ll see_. “But it’s a school night and you’re running on no sleep at all. Time for bed now.”

Betty has no choice but to retreat to her room. She waves her mom goodnight a second time, but just seconds after she has closed the door, her phone buzzes.

 

10.53pm  
Need to talk. Window route?

 

Her heart begins beating faster, and for a brief couple of seconds she considers playing it cool and waiting a few minutes but, heck, who is she kidding? She types out an affirmative reply, hands trembling a little. Then she begins retying her ponytail, but the knock on the window comes quicker than she expects. Putting the elastic around her wrist, she goes to slide it open.

“Hey,” says Jughead, and the appreciative glance at her hair, loose around her shoulders, makes the idea of ever wearing it up again seem laughable.

“Hey,” she echoes, stepping aside to let him climb in.

As if by some unspoken agreement, they sink down on the bed. The room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp, and being this close to him in the relative darkness feels almost intimate.

“Your mom,” says Jughead quietly, eyes flitting to the door. “I think she knows more than she lets on.”

“That’s kind of in her job description, but sure, agreed,” says Betty. “How well do they know each other anyway? Our parents I mean?”

Jughead pulls a nonplussed face. “No idea. I’d never heard of her before I came here. School buddies sounds more than a little flimsy.”

An awkward silence descends on them as they both consider the unthinkable but ultimately also most likely option.

“Anyway,” says Jughead quickly. “If I talk to dad, maybe you could try and milk Mrs. C for some information.”

“I can try,” says Betty doubtfully. Her mom is usually good at catching on to games like that. “I’ll talk to Ronnie as well,” she offers. “See if I can get the lowdown on that El Dinero guy.”

He nods thoughtfully, then flashes her a quick smile. “I wonder how the bottle-spinning went.”

“No doubt it ended with Archie and Veronica making out in a closet,” says Betty blithely. “It usually does.”

“They need a reason? I thought they were, you know, an item.”

Betty grimaces. “Yeah, it's an on and off thing.”

“Party games truly are the most thinly veiled excuse for sucking face,” Jughead says. “Truth or dare is the only acceptable one.”

“Okay, now I’m intrigued,” says Betty. “Why, exactly?”

Jughead shuffles on the bed to get comfortable and starts counting off the reasons on his fingers. “First off, you don't _have_ to get physical with anyone unless you want to - you can always just pick truth. Secondly, the truth element is an excellent way of prying secrets from people - and especially when they’re drunk - because it doesn't occur to them that you can just lie. Also, the dares aren't just about getting it on with someone. I once dared a guy to bring me a plate of tater tots from the cafeteria. There's _endless_ possibilities.”

“I can tell you've spent time thinking about this,” says Betty.

“No pinball machines in the break room at Southside,” he shrugs.

Betty thinks about Veronica and Archie, how they’re probably tumbling around in Ronnie’s queen size bed this very moment. Then she thinks about Jughead’s mouth pressed firmly against hers, separated by no more than Reggie’s business card, and how she had wanted for him to drop it. A vague idea strikes her, and before she can change her mind, she blurts it out. “So… truth or dare?”

He knits his brows suspiciously. “What, are we playing now?”

“I don’t know, are we?” she says lightly, but she can feel her pulse pounding desperately at her temples as she hopes, wishes, almost prays that she’s not been reading him wrong.

“Truth,” he says warily.

Betty relaxes slowly, trying to not let it show. “Playing safe,” she teases as though she’d ever pick a dare on the first round. “Okay, let’s see. First kiss?”

He frowns briefly. “First kiss what? When? Or who?”

“Take your pick.”

“‘First’ is such an arbitrary concept though,” he says. “What’s the cut-off point for what counts as a real kiss?”

“We’re not talking kisses from mommy,” says Betty. “ _Romantic_ kisses.”

“I can’t say there’s been an abundance of either,” says Jughead sarcastically.

Betty feels her stomach drop; they’ve only ever brushed the surface of the topic of his mother. “Sorry,” she says. “It was a stupid question anyway.”

“When I was thirteen, I kissed a girl called Gina,” he muses, ignoring her apology. “That was the first time it didn’t feel weird or revolting. Puberty hard at work, I guess. My turn now? Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” she says.

He looks up at the ceiling, evidently thinking hard. “Uh… Where do you see yourself in three years? Or maybe five?”

Betty huffs a short laugh. “What is this, a job interview?”

“I'm tired, alright?” Jughead complains. “I don’t have the energy to think of something clever right now. Besides, it _does_ say a lot about a person.”

She wants to give him the quick answer. The safe, well-rehearsed version about Columbia and internships and postgrad studies. It's the one she and her mom have been telling for so long that she hasn't stopped to consider anything else for years now. For some reason, the words won’t come. The silence seems endless to Betty, even though it lasts only a few moments. _Something. Just say something. Anything._

“I'm not sure,” she finally manages, and even as she utters the sentence, it strikes her that she really isn't. Suddenly, she feels like she's on the verge of freaking out. How and when did she start doubting this? She had been planning on spending the summer finalizing all her top college choices and booking campus tours and now she’s _not sure_?

“Really?” he says, surprised. “Full offense, but you strike me as the kind of person who would have started working on their essay as a freshman.”

“I did,” she says. “I mean, I am. I _am_ that kind of person.” It feels like she’s trying to convince herself that, yes, this is still the case.

“But now you’re not sure…?” Jughead asks carefully.

“Of course I am,” she smiles, her autopilot finally kicking in. “I’m just not completely sure what I’d prefer to major in. It’s between English or Poli Sci. I’m still undecided.” Jughead looks wholly unconvinced, so she decides to move things along speedily. “Okay, my turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth, I guess,” he says.

This time, she knows exactly what to ask. “Where did you go last Tuesday?”

He gives her an exasperated look. “This again?” Betty raises an eyebrow, and he rolls his eyes. “Fine. I went to Southside.”

A little chill goes through her. “What were you doing there?”

“It’s my _home_ , Betty,” he reminds her. “But if you must know, I was returning some things.”

“What things?” she asks, and the look he gives her makes her feel a little guilty about dragging this up again.

“A couple of CDs. A book.”

That icy feeling shoots through her again, but this time it’s tainted with hot, green jealousy. “To a… friend?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does, it’s hesitant. “An... ex.”

“Oh!” says Betty, far too cheerfully, all while the cold in her stomach intensifies until it’s almost an ache. “I’m sorry about that! When did you…”

“Don’t be,” he says, and he looks almost apologetic. “It’s been over for a while. To be honest, I’m not sure we were ever really… Yeah. I don’t know what it was, exactly.”

She nods, trying her best to look sympathetic while in fact she’s reeling from a strange and unexpected onslaught of emotions. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” she asks.

Jughead gives her a helpless look. “I don’t know,” he says. “In my defense I _did_ actually go by Pop’s as well. I’d ask him to vouch for me, but I’m in there so often he probably wouldn’t be able to tell you for sure.”

“I believe you,” she says, and she means it.

He gives her a lopsided smile. “Thanks.” He fiddles a little with his hair, tucks it under his beanie. “So… Are we still playing?”

Betty throws her hands out. “Hit me.”

“Yes ma’am. Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” she says.

“Alright. Let’s get back to the kissing theme.” His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Be honest now. Is Reggie a good kisser?”

She pulls a face. “Ugh. I don't know. Maybe?”

“Maybe?”

“I mean, the kiss itself was awful. But I'm not sure if it's because _I'm_ a bad kisser or if it’s just the fact that I find the whole idea of kissing Reggie abhorrent.”

“ _You're_ a bad kisser?” he asks, amused.

“Well… yeah, I guess?”

He gives her a doubtful look. “Has someone been giving you unfavorable reviews in the art of tongue-tangling?”

“More like I haven't really had much practice. Outside games like these, that is.” She's not sure why she's feels almost comfortable talking about it with him. It must be the darkness, she thinks. Or how deep in her bones, she’s tired. Tired enough to sleep for three days straight, but also tired of waiting for the perfect moment with the perfect boy.

“No boyfriends? Girlfriends?”

“Not since a blessed three weeks in sixth grade… Anyway, that was more like five truths. My turn.”

“Dare,” he says, even before she asks.

She's a bit taken aback by that; she hasn't really given any thought to a possible dare. “I dare you…” she says slowly to give herself time to think “...to go downstairs and sneak something from the kitchen without mom noticing. She always keeps some emergency snacks in the top drawer next to the fridge.”

Jughead jumps up from the bed with a confident smirk. “Consider it done,” he says.

“You do know you'll invoke a wrath previously unbeknownst to man if she catches us midnight snacking?”

“All the more reason to be swift about my quest,” he says, prying the door open to make sure all is clear before disappearing out onto the landing.

To his credit, he is extremely quiet, but Betty is almost hovering on the bed, leaning towards the door, straining to listen for any noises that might betray them. A couple of minutes later he returns with a packet of Twinkies and a can of Cherry Coke.

“Beware the sugar rush,” he says, tossing the loot down on the bed. “My turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” she says, biting into a Twinkie. She imagines she can see a flash of disappointment in his eyes.

“Hmm… How long have you been crushing on Archie?”

Betty coughs, cake crumbs spraying her lap. “What?” she asks in a strangled voice, just about managing to swallow the rest without choking. Jughead doesn't reply, but the look he gives her speaks loudly enough. “Ugh, okay. I guess it's not exactly a secret. I had a major, major crush on him for years. Like… for as long as I can remember. But I'm over it now. Been over it since Sophomore year.”

“What happened?”

She picks at a couple of crumbs on her jeans and mashes them together between her thumb and forefinger. “I asked him if he liked me, he said no, and I just kind of… Was forced to move on. Which was _good_.”

“But not with anyone else?”

Betty grimaces. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Too many questions,” she says, slapping him lightly on the knee. “My turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. Um. I’ve got my snacks,” she says, holding up another Twinkie. “How about some entertainment? I dare you to sing me a song.”

Jughead’s eyes widen. “No, no, no. You don’t want that, trust me.”

“Oh, now I definitely do,” says Betty, grinning. “Come on, you’ll have to sing quietly anyway, I’ll barely hear you.”

“What’s the punishment for skipping a dare? Remove a piece of clothing, right? Easy peasy.” He shrugs out of his plaid shirt and throws it on the floor, leaving him in a t-shirt and jeans. Betty’s stomach does a little flip, and she tries not to let her eyes linger on his arms. They’re not buff and muscled like Archie’s, but lean and strong.

“You complete coward,” she says, forcing herself to look at his face instead, which, if she’s honest, doesn’t exactly leave her less flustered.

“Says the girl who keeps picking truth. Well, what’ll it be this time?”

“Truth.”

“Why do you keep picking truth?”

She snorts. “That’s your question?” He motions at her to go on. “Fine,” she says, feeling more than a little put on the spot. To be honest, she’s not sure herself. “I’m a complete coward?” she says eventually.

“At least you’re a self-aware one. Dare.”

This time, she doesn’t have to think very hard, because the dare he skipped has given her a brilliant idea; a chance to put those elusive dark locks of his on full display. “I dare you to take your hat off.”

As soon as she’s said it, she regrets it. The shadow that passes over his face speaks volumes, and she draws a breath to take it back, but then the moment is gone, and he gives her a strained smile.

“My hat hair is a force to be reckoned with, Betty,” he says dryly. “I’d rather sing, to be honest.”

“You don’t have to,” she says quickly, hoping he understand that she means either.

“You wanted entertainment, you will have it. What do you want me to sing?”

“Anything you like.” She’s still mentally exercising damage control on the whole situation, making a note - no, a _placard_ \- to self, reminding her to never ever ask about the hat again.

“No, you’ll have to give me something.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, waving her hands in the air, trying to think of a song, _any_ song. Then her eyes fall on the little picture of Jesus and Mary that hangs by the door; a weird remnant of a time when she happily skipped along to Sunday Service with mom. “Take Me To Church,” she blurts out.

“Alright,” he says, sitting up a little straighter. He reaches for the Coke and takes a swig, then clears his throat. “Take me to church. I can do this. Hrm. _My lover’s got hmm-hmm_ ,” he begins, quietly and rather evidently far too high for his vocal range.

“Humor,” she fills in. He looks at her expectantly, so she keeps going. “ _She’s the giggle at a funeral?_ ” she sings in a hushed voice.

“See, you should be the one doing this. I don’t even know the words, and you can actually sing.”

“I only know that and the chorus,” she confesses. “Google the lyrics, we’ll do it together.”

Huddled over his phone, they struggle through the first verse and the chorus, her clear voice carrying his uncertain one, interrupted by only a minor fit of giggles and a couple of mismatched melodies.

“Ugh,” he says when it’s over. “Let’s never do that again.”

“Agreed,” she says emphatically. A few moments of silence stretch out between them, and she’s about to suggest he climb back over to his room when he speaks again.

“Okay my turn. Truth… or dare.”

The way he says it makes it impossible to pick truth again without looking like the wimpiest wimp that ever wimped and yet, she can't bring herself to it. “Truth,” she says.

He sighs. “So predictable. Okay, here goes. In the potential scenario that we'd stayed for spin the bottle, who would you have wanted the bottle to stop on.”

There's an obvious answer, a _true_ answer, and isn’t this the very reason why she initiated this silly game? Still, she finds now that she simply doesn’t have the guts, and her mind goes blank. She has to pick a safer option, but who? Who was even at that disaster of a party? It feels like weeks ago already. Would she have wanted to kiss Archie? To her own surprise, she finds that the answer to that question is a firm _no_. She has kissed Kevin before, but how weird would that sound? She allows herself to glance up at Jughead, and that's when she sees it; the same soft look in his eyes he had the second before she dropped that stupid card. The same amused look. It makes her giddy, and foolish, and brave.

“You,” she says.

Jughead seems to freeze briefly where he sits on the bed. “Me?” he asks.

“Yeah, I mean…” Betty begins with a nervous little laugh. She finds herself wanting to give him a reason why now, and once again, her brain proves frightfully unable to cooperate.

Jughead’s gaze flickers from her eyes and down her face, and then back up again. “Do you want to?” he asks, and Betty’s heart is suddenly looking for a direct exit through the front of her ribcage.

In the space of a couple of seconds, she finds the time to worry over just about _everything_ ; how sweaty her palms are, how her breath probably stinks, how late it is, a school day and all tomorrow, and what if he’s just poking fun, and... “Are you serious?” she asks.

“Is this not the face of a deadly serious man?” he says, pointing to himself, and she’s still one hundred percent _not_ sure. She feels like Atreyu, gazing into the eyes of the sphinx. He cocks his head slightly. “Besides, there’s an unsolved mystery here, and this is a great opportunity to crack it.”

“What mystery?”

He hikes an eyebrow up. “The mystery of whether or not Betty Cooper is in fact a bad kisser.”

She gives him her best unimpressed look and then, after a moment’s pause, she says, “Okay.” It’s barely a whisper.

“Okay?”

She doesn’t trust her voice anymore, so she just nods and gives a little shrug as if to say ‘whatever’. Jughead leans forwards slightly, so she does as well. Gently, he cups her cheek, brings her face towards his, slowly, giving her every chance to back away. She wets her lips nervously, and she sees the little smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth before she closes her eyes as their lips touch.

His mouth is soft against hers, languidly capturing her bottom lip and lingering there. Now that it’s happening, she doesn’t even have time to worry. Some kind of short circuiting seems to be going on in her head, because the only thing she can actually register thinking is _yes_. With most things in life, Betty has a clear strategy, a detailed plan that she follows to a T, but this time she doesn’t get a head start. Instead, she has to let some primitive corner of her brain take over, and it tells her to part her lips a little, to deepen the kiss. Jughead lets out a breath through his nose that sounds like approval, and her heart swells. Their tongues brush together briefly once, twice, and she can feel his hand moving up into her hair. He tastes of Cherry Coke and boy, and she thinks maybe kissing him is the best feeling in the world.

“Elizabeth?” Alice’s voice from outside is followed by a quick series of knocks on the door.

They fly apart, Jughead whispering a ‘ _shit_ ’ under his breath. In less than five seconds he’s turned off the light on the bedside table, taken the Coke can in one hand, the half-eaten packet of Twinkies between his teeth and disappeared out the window, all while making less noise than a goddamn ninja. Meanwhile, Betty has just about managed to struggle out of her jeans and thrown back the covers. Right before turning the door handle, she tousles her hair a bit and sets her eyes in a tired squint.

“What?” she says, cracking the door open.

Alice has her arms crossed, her face locked in what Betty recognizes as a Suspicious Frown No.3. “Are you still up? I thought I heard something. Singing?”

“No?” says Betty, trying to put on her best sleepy voice. The fact that it’s a little thick with muddled emotions is surprisingly helpful.

“Are you sleeping with your bra on?” says her mom, eyes lingering on the strap peeking out from under her tank top.

“What? Uh… Yeah, I read that it helps the... “ she motions indistinctly at her chest, “...not to sag, so…”

“Hm.” She cranes her neck a little, looking behind Betty who becomes acutely aware of the plaid shirt lying on the floor, mere inches away from her foot.

“I’ve got school tomorrow, mom,” complains Betty. “Did you actually want anything?”

“Hm,” says Alice again, then turns on her heel and stalks off towards her own bedroom.

Betty closes the door carefully, letting out a slow breath, and then a soft little laugh. She picks up Jughead’s shirt. It’s the cheesiest thing in the world to do, but she lifts it to her face, smells the collar, and a full flashback of the kiss hits her right in the feels. She trembles slightly, her tightly wound nerves and emotions finally uncoiling as she revels in the memory. Then, because she’s not a _total_ creep, she folds the shirt neatly and hides it under a pile of her own clothes on a chair.

As she’s getting into bed, her phone screen lights up.

 

12.03 am  
It’s not you it’s Reggie

 

She knows what he means, and she can’t stop herself from grinning. She also can’t stop herself from playing stupid.

 

12.03 am  
?

The little speech bubble with the infuriating jumping dots appears, and after what feels like forever, he replies.

 

12.04 am  
You’re not bad at kissing so clearly it must be him?

 

Her grin grows wider, and she feels like hiding her face in the pillow, but then she sees that he’s typing again.

 

12.04 am  
But hey if you want more practice

12.04 am  
I do accept bribes in the form of most types of food or hard cash

 

Again, she’s not sure if he’s just messing with her, and she chews her lip frantically before typing out her reply.

 

12.05 am  
I’ll keep it in mind ;)

 

It’s a miracle that she sleeps at all that night.


	10. Out of the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! I have not loved season 2 so far. For a long time, I thought I wouldn't pick this up again, but thanks to neverending encouragement from (and many a late night rant with) [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily) and [nimmieamee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimmieamee/pseuds/nimmieamee), I got over myself and my ass back into gear. Thank you both, so much.
> 
> Hopefully I'll be posting weekly over the hiatus. To everyone who's stuck with this, and me, thank you for your patience <3

_Let me tell you about fathers._

_I asked Betty Cooper once what happened to her dad. It was still a sore subject, I could tell, but from what I could understand, Hal Cooper had been the ideal father for fifteen and a half glorious years. Forest hikes, trips to Six Flags, teaching Betty how to drive at twelve - she’d had it all and more. And then he’d gone and tried to force her sister Polly to have an abortion, kicking off a chain of events that unravelled disturbing secret upon disturbing secret until, finally, Alice Cooper had enough and threw him out of the house._

_“Good riddance,” Betty said to me, and it sounded like she meant it._

_My dad, on the other hand, was never even in the general vicinity of being an ideal father. He’s an alcoholic, for starters, which means there’s going to be times when he’s more of an idiot than others. Latetia says it’s a sickness, and if it is, I’m not sure he wants to be cured._

_When I was little, the bad times sat in my belly like a lump of coal, ready to flare up and make me burn with anxiety and guilt. Later on, when I began to understand the sort of person my dad was, what he did for a living, I went through a phase of trying to ride the waves with him, following him through the ups and downs. When he was sober, he brought me with him. His little serpent, proudly at his side, watching keenly every handshake, every nod, every worn, crinkled envelope snuck furtively across the table._

_When he disappeared, I did too. I don’t know exactly what he did on his benders, but I kicked, and broke, and stole, and spray painted until I was too cold, or tired, or hungry._

_At some point I noticed that kicking and breaking and stealing didn’t really make a difference. At some point, I realized that I wasn’t much good at any of it either. And at some point, Mr. Phillips at Southside high noticed that I was, in fact, pretty good at other things._

_I don’t know what’s worse. Having a great dad your entire childhood who then makes one giant asshole move and disappears from your life completely, or having one who makes many, many average sized asshole moves until he eventually wears your trust down to the bone._

 

* * *

 

Betty awakens the next morning to the ghost of a kiss trailing over her lips and an acute need for closure. She scrambles for her phone under the pillow and pulls it out to stare at the screen. It's four minutes before the alarm, and the lack of notifications stares right back. What now? She reads the texts from last night, over and over, staring at the words until they begin to blur together, and it makes her none the wiser. Then her eyes fall on the chair next to her bed, and the pile of clothes.

Towel in one hand, plaid shirt in the other, she smiles at herself in the mirror.

“I was just on my way…” she says, holding the towel out to her reflection. “No, no…” she mutters. Then, “Hi. Hi? Okay, hi. No, why would anyone… _Ugh_.”

Practicing isn't helping, that much is clear. There's nothing for it but taking the bull by the horns, so she takes a deep breath, adjusts her top, and heads out into the house.

Jughead's door is ajar, and she knocks gingerly at it. As she strains her ears to listen to sounds from inside, the even whooshing from the shower filters through to her over-wired brain. Peeking inside Polly's old room, slightly messy and most definitely empty, is undeniable confirmation; he's in the bath. Her shoulders sink in disappointment, and she wonders if she should just come back in a few minutes.

“Are you up, Betty?” her mom calls from downstairs.

Betty gives a start. “Yes!” she yells back, and in a minor fit of panic throws Jughead's shirt on the unmade bed before pushing the door shut.

Alice is making her way up the stairs, but stops halfway, crossing her arms and furrowing her brow. “What are you doing?” she asks.

Betty shoots her mother an annoyed look and gives the towel a brusque wave in her direction.

“We have a downstairs bathroom,” says Alice evenly.

“Ah, but not…” begins Betty, thinking frantically. “...Not a downstairs _razor_ and I need to shave my legs, okay?”

In that very moment, the bathroom door swings open, and Jughead emerges, in pyjama bottoms and a towel draped over his shoulders. His hair is messy and damp and most decidedly hatless. They stare at each other for a second before Betty spins around, blushing furiously while Jughead slinks into his room without a word.

“What is going on with you two?” asks Alice, jutting her hip out in a manner that says she’s not going anywhere until she has some answers.

“What’s going _on_?” Betty scoffs. “What’s going on is… Is we have a _stranger_ living with us who keeps hogging the shower, that’s what’s going on.”

“Elizabeth,” says Alice warningly.

“ _What_ , mom?”

“You’ve been very friendly with Jughead lately, getting involved in the nasty business with his father... I trust that after the whole Archie debacle you’re not letting our resident Southside scoundrel lead you astray?”

“Scoundrel?” says Betty with a frown, before she realizes that’s counterproductive. She folds her arms decisively, mirroring her mother. “Look, mom, _you_ brought him into this house, not me. I’m just trying to be polite, the way you raised me, remember? Now can I _please_ go have my shower? I’ll be late for school.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turns and enters the bathroom, still steamy and hot from Jughead’s visit. With a head full of shampoo, she lets a finger trace a pattern in the droplets on the curved glass of the shower wall while she considers his wet hair, and his lean chest, which she apparently found the time to memorize in minute detail. She spends her own turn in the cubicle trying her best not to let that thought distract her, and ends up with three minor cuts on her left leg.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast is an exercise in uncomfortable silence, watched over by a particularly hawkeyed Alice. Betty hardly dares to glance at Jughead, who seems engrossed in his eggs and bacon, and by the time they’re in the truck, heading for school, they’ve slipped into small talk of the kind they didn’t even have on his first day in the house. Reluctantly, Betty resigns herself to the fact that they’re not going to talk about the kiss.

After first period, Ethel catches her up in the corridor, handing her a piece of paper.

“It’s for the next issue of _The Blue and Gold_ ,” she says.

“Thanks,” says Betty, eyeing it over quickly. The title is ‘Every Vote Counts’. “About the election?”

“Mm-hm. On the importance of voting. No matter who you vote for. Completely objective, of course.”

“Of course,” smiles Betty. “Why the printout?” she asks, frowning at the paper.

Ethel glances uncertainly at her. “You… You haven’t been answering my emails.”

Betty draws a breath to protest, then stops herself, because she hasn’t actually opened her laptop for a few days. “I haven’t?”

“You’ve been busy, I know, but I thought since the next issue is due on Friday…”

“ _Woah_.” Betty stops dead, raising a hand. “We printed last week, next one isn’t…” Then it hits her.

“Election special, remember?” says Ethel carefully.

“Yep,” says Betty, clutching at her forehead. For a few moments, the corridor seems to be shrinking around her, her field of vision narrowing, darkening. She shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath, sneaking her fingers into a fist. It hurts a little, and it helps.

“Are you okay?” asks Ethel.

“I’m fine!” says Betty, snapping her eyes open with a smile. “It just… Slipped my mind. I’ll be right on it.”

 

* * *

 

Things only seem to get worse from then on. At lunchtime, Josie McCoy and Melody Valentine approach her in the line for the cafeteria.

“You better warm up those printers, Chloe Sullivan, we’ve got a change of theme for prom,” says Josie, head of the committee.

“ _What?_ ” says Betty, who is in charge of marketing and decoration. “You can’t change the theme now. Prom is in less than three weeks!”

“Money talks,” says Josie matter-of-factly, “and when the biggest donor has something to say, we listen. Under The Sea doesn’t float it, apparently. Masquerade Ball is the new black.”

Betty had been _so_ prepared for prom - not to attend, obviously, as per her vow not to date, but she had fulfilled her obligations on the committee more than a month ago. The back room of _The Blue and Gold_ is currently overflowing with shell-shaped canape plates and turquoise streamers, not to mention an enormous oyster throne for the king and queen.

“But…” she splutters. “We’ll have to return everything! And order new stuff, like, _yesterday_. And the flyers have gone out, and-”

Josie gives her a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry, Betty, but don’t shoot the messenger. We’re all in the same boat here, and that boat is now a gondola, not a submarine.”

With that, she walks off to a table to join Cheryl, who is gazing at Betty levelly.

“Oh I see how it is,” mutters Betty. “ _Money_ talks…”

“Um,” says Melody delicately. “I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news.”

Betty turns to Melody, slowly, because she's can feel her hold on reality beginning to slip. “Yes?”

“Lilou Leclair has caught a stomach bug,” says Melody. “She called me this morning to ask if we could postpone until next week.”

_Lilou Leclair_. The up and coming French-American singer from Greendale they'd booked through the French club this week, set to perform in the auditorium _tonight_. And Betty had promised…

“Did you spend all evening yesterday baking-” Melody starts.

“Eclairs for Leclair?” Betty's smile is so strained her cheeks are tingling, all while her head is reeling. “I'm sure they're okay to store in the freezer.”

“Phew!” says Melody with a relieved roll of the eyes. “She said she'd be able to make it next Tuesday. I know you're busy with…” her eyes flit to the table where Cheryl and Josie are sitting. “I'll take care of rescheduling the backup band, and putting notices up on the posters.”

“Thank you,” says Betty, impulsively hugging her tight, infinitely grateful to have dodged this bullet that she’d managed to completely suppress any memory of being fired in the first place.

While she picks at her salad, she double and triple checks her calendar, making sure there’s nothing else she’s missed. With a heavy sigh, she crosses out cheer practice from Thursday afternoon, writing ‘masquerade ball’ in tiny letters underneath it. Flipping the page to next week, she writes ‘BAKE’ in capital letters in the Monday column and drags her pink marker pen across it so forcefully that the page crumples.

“Fuck,” she hisses under her breath.

“Language, Cooper,” says a familiar voice, and Betty looks up to see Jughead slip into the seat across from her. “Hey, what’s up?” he says, eyeing her cautiously.

“Nothing,” says Betty, slapping the calendar shut. “A bit busy, that’s all.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

She allows herself an honest smile this time. “It’s fine,” she says. “But look, I have a _lot_ to do this week so I’m going to stay late today.”

“I’ve got a meeting with social services after school,” says Jughead.

“Right.” Betty nods. “So definitely no need for a ride tonight, okay? I’ll get the bus.”

Jughead raises his eyebrows and takes a big bite out of his sandwich. “‘Kay,” he shrugs.

A strange compulsion comes over her then, and she’s about _this_ close to suggesting they skip the rest of the day and just _go_. Somewhere, _anywhere_ , preferably where there’s no cell phone signal, no chocolate eclairs that need baking and no masquerades looming on the horizon. Instead, she begins gather up her things.

“I’d love to keep you company,” she says apologetically, “but I have to try and get a hold of someone at Peter’s Party Palace before fourth period. Good luck with the meeting.”

 

* * *

 

Before she sits down to pick some items off her to-do-list after the bell rings, Betty has one more horse to wrangle. She catches Veronica on her way out from Calculus.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” she says. “Come back to the office?”

Ronnie politely declines the worn sofa, and instead remains standing by the door while Betty explains the situation. As she listens, Veronica’s face goes from mildly interested to quietly furious before landing somewhere around thoroughly disappointed.

“Are you suggesting my father is involved in small-time crime in the Southside slums?” she asks mildly.

“I don’t know if he is,” says Betty with a helpless shrug. “But that man is.”

“That man,” Veronica repeats, shaking her head. “I’m sorry but I have no idea who you’re even talking about. I don’t remember anyone else being there.”

“He was definitely there, Ronnie,” says Betty, offended that she mistrusts her on such a basic issue.

“Okay, but as to any crimes this mysterious man has committed, you only really have the word of Joaquin, right? Why do you trust him, Betty? Because he’s a friend of _Jughead’s_? Whose father is a high ranking Serpent, currently facing some serious jail time?”

With the way Ronnie spits Jughead’s name out, Betty knows that’s a dead end. “Kevin knows him,” she says, wheedling even though she hates it.

“Kevin!” Veronica scoffs. “Kevin is in _love_ , and you know how stupid he can get when-”

“He is not stupid,” Betty cuts her off, getting to her feet. “The only one being stupid here right now is _you_ , not even listening to a single word I’ve got to say!”

Veronica tilts her jaw up, and when she next speaks, her voice is icy cool. “Why _should_ I listen to a single word you say, Betty, when all I’m hearing is slander. My father is a highly respected businessman. He makes more than enough money doing honest business with honest men. Frankly, I find it insulting to _your_ intelligence that you would believe something like this about my family.”

“I-” begins Betty.

“You _what_?”

It’s as though her brain is on the verge of shutting down completely. Somewhere on the edge of her consciousness, the mountain of responsibilities she’s landed herself with is rumbling, threatening to crumble, and she knows that a full-on fight with Ronnie would cause at the very least a landslide. _Pick your battles, Betty_ , she tells herself.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m probably jumping to conclusions.”

Veronica narrows her eyes suspiciously. Clearly she had been preparing to meet more resistance than this. “O-kay,” she says slowly. “I’ll be… going then.” It’s almost a question. Then she shakes her hair, as if shrugging off their little argument. With one gloved hand on the doorknob, she looks back at Betty. “Is everything all right, B?”

And for what feels like the umpteenth time today, Betty strains a smile. “I’m fine.”

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly nine o’clock by the time she gets home. Alice is sitting at the dinner table, nails clicking away at her laptop, but the house feels curiously empty.

“Where’s Jughead?” Betty asks.

“Next door,” says Alice in an ominous voice, as though ‘next door’ is some sort of magical portal leading to the Amsterdam red light district. She folds the screen down a little, giving her a pointed look. “And hi, by the way. You missed dinner by two and a half hours.”

Betty huffs. “Mom, I texted you…”

Alice ignores that. “Did you get everything done that you had to do, sweetie?” she asks, adjusting her glasses and turning back to the computer.

“Not nearly,” Betty mutters before heading upstairs.

At her desk, she pulls out her homework; English, Journalism, Biology - all stuff she would have normally been done with by eight. As her laptop starts up, she gazes across the yard at Archie’s window. The erratic blue-and-white flickering is a surefire sign of video games being played, and for a second she wishes she was there with them. She spent the summer between seventh and eighth grade playing _Street Fighter IV_ in that room, and though Archie would never admit to it, she’d kicked his ass on multiple occasions. With a wistful sigh, she opens her Biology book to the genetics chapter and gets down to business.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in weeks, she gets herself off before she falls asleep. More precisely _to_ fall asleep, she tells herself, but things are not going according to plan.

When she had first discovered what she could do to herself, that same summer she spent on Archie’s PS3, she had used her newfound superpowers with the thrilling, slightly shameful but ultimately inevitable delight of any fourteen year-old. Because she’d read that she should do so in magazines and blogs, she explored and experimented, in a quest to perfect what _Teen Vogue_ called “the flick that makes you tick”. Everything had been going splendidly until one balmy night in August when Polly had made an unannounced appearance at the open window.

Their eyes had met, simultaneously widening in terror. For a brief second, they had stared at each other, before her sister’s face disappeared again, leaving Betty trying to sink through the mattress in anguish.

She had always imagined she could talk to Polly about anything. They didn’t talk at all the next morning, didn’t talk that day, or that weekend. It turned out there were some things that were simply unspeakable. Even now, nearly three years later, the mere thought of it is enough to make Betty’s skin crawl with embarrassment. The thought catches her unawares sometimes, bobbing to the surface of her mind when she least expects it.

From then on, she has touched herself only sporadically, and only after making sure no-one would interrupt. Hands under the covers, window closed, curtains drawn.

In her sophomore year, it had helped her sleep. It had been an exhausting, laborious activity, the climax of which was enough to empty her mind, allowing her to plummet into a deep, dark sleep. Now, it leaves her out of breath and wide awake, tingling all over with lingering frustration. She’d been thinking of Jughead. That’s the problem here, she realizes. She lies on her side, curling up into a ball, trying to push him and his stupid, damp hair and annoying, brooding eyes out of her head. He’s just there, on the other side of that wall, she thinks, tipping her head back to stare at the wallpaper. For a short, terrifying moment she imagines him hearing her through the wall. But no, she knows how quiet she keeps.

She pulls her phone out, checking for messages she knows aren’t there. The kiss still lingers. A full twenty-four hours later it still burns her lips, and it’s a long while before she sleeps.

 

* * *

 

Betty spends Thursday in a state of controlled frenzy, relentlessly powering through as much material as possible during classes while spending every free moment working on finalizing the election special for the school paper. Once the final bell rings, she stares longingly at the group of girls headed for the changing rooms before retreating to the office. At just past five PM, there’s a polite knock on the door.

“It’s open,” she calls.

It’s Jughead, sticking his head in. “Hey,” he says. “You’re not at cheer practice.”

Betty takes the opportunity to stretch her arms behind her neck with a groan. “Evidently not,” she says. “I need to finish this before I leave, so-”

“No ride home, I get it,” says Jughead, fiddling with the shoulder strap to his messenger bag. “That’s not why I’m here though.”

She sits up a little straighter. “What?”

“I’m going to see dad in lockup tomorrow,” he says. “And I know you’re busy and all, but I thought you might have some questions about Mrs. C...”

“Yes,” Betty blurts out, scrambling to her feet. “Absolutely, I’ll come. I mean. If you want me to.” She forces herself to sit down again, perched on the desk.

His mouth pulls into a lopsided smile. “If you want to.” He looks around the office, pulling down on his hat uncertainly. “Hey, look, can I help you out here?” he asks.

“Thanks, but-” Betty begins, and then she remembers something. “Actually, did you ever get around to writing that piece I asked you about? This issue is definitely on the slim side, and an op-ed would be the perfect bolster, even if it’s not about the election.”

Jughead pulls a face, and she thinks she can see the hint of a blush. “Nothing you could print,” he says. “But maybe you need a second pair of eyes? For proofing?”

Leaving such an important task to someone else makes her need for control whine angrily inside her, but she knows she could use the help. “Sure,” she nods, and the way his face lights up makes her belly flutter hopefully.

While he shrugs his bag off, she digs out the column Ethel gave her the day before and that she still hasn't gotten a chance to look at. “And thank you,” she says gratefully, handing it to him.

 

* * *

 

The jail at the local station is dark, dank and mostly empty. The stench of urine prickles in Betty's nose and she walks as close to the middle of the hall as possible, making sure she doesn't accidentally touch something. Jughead seems more at home, walking calmly behind the officer showing them the way. A grunt can be heard from a cell they pass, followed by a hoarse “Hey, angel, come to bring me home?” Betty jumps a little, skipping away from the darkness in the cramped enclosure.

“Shut your trap, four-seven-two,” the officer drawls, stepping back to drag his baton across the bars of the cell, the sound clattering and echoing between the walls.

When they reach the end of the hallway, the policeman turns to them. “You've got fifteen minutes,” he says, spitting on the floor. “Holler if he's trouble, miss,” he smirks, glancing at Jughead, who doesn't move a muscle until the officer saunters off back towards the main entrance. Then he calmly flips him the finger.

“You’re letting them get to you again,” comes a voice from the cell next to them.

FP Jones looks of an age with her mother, but spending two weeks behind bars has clearly taken its toll on him. He looks a lot like Jughead, she can tell, and cleaned up he would probably be devilishly handsome for a forty-something; right now the overall impression is marred by over long stubble, sallow cheeks, greasy hair and deep rings under his eyes. He gets up from the narrow bunk and pads over to them.

“Hey dad,” says Jughead.

“The improbable son returns,” says FP, resting his arms on the bars.

“Prodigal,” says Jughead.

“Yeah, that was a…” He sighs. “Nevermind.” Then he turns to Betty. “And who’s this? You his girlfriend? Alice's daughter? Both?” His eyebrows fly up suggestively and he flashes her a grin.

“Betty Cooper,” she says, glancing at Jughead who looks mortified.

FP snickers and shakes his head. “So, what can I do for you kids? I assume you're not making courtesy calls all of a sudden, Jug?”

“It's about the case,” says Jughead. “There's… things that don't really make sense.”

“What things?” asks FP, growing serious.

“First of all, I gotta know, dad. The drugs.”

“What about the drugs.”

“Were they yours?”

FP glares at him. “Serpents don’t deal,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” says Jughead. “Tell that to Coral over in county.”

“Pot is pot, Jughead. If you want to ban that from the Southside you might as well bring back prohibition.”

Jughead’s face is tense, his scowl deeper than Betty has ever seen before. “Can you promise me they weren’t yours?” he asks.

FP leans forward to check the corridor through the bars. “There’s a very limited number of individuals in this town who can afford that amount of blow,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not one of them.”

Jughead looks far from convinced. “Then why did you have it?”

“Why?” says FP with a snort. “Because someone decided to put it in the back of my truck.”

“If you’re saying it was planted, then who did it? And why?” asks Betty.

“If I knew that, do you think I’d still be sitting here?” FP says. Then he points at her, grinning again. “Watch out for this one,” he says to Jughead. “She’s definitely Alice’s girl.”

Betty and Jughead exchange a wary glance. “So you have no idea?” asks Jughead.

“Why, do you?”

“Tell us about this guy, El Dinero,” says Betty, trying a different angle.

FP’s face turns stony in a heartbeat. “What about him?”

She shrugs. “Just… You know, what was your business with him?”

“A bit of this, a bit of that,” he says evasively, eyes flickering to Jughead. “How do you know about him anyway?”

“Just because I chose not to follow in your footsteps doesn’t mean I don’t have friends,” says Jughead.

“That’s news to me, kid. I thought you liked being alone.”

“Christ,” mutters Jughead, turning around to pace a few steps.

Betty can feel the frustration oozing off of both of them, and to make matters worse, the clock is ticking.

“We saw him at Veronica’s house,” she says. “The Lodge residence, I mean.”

“Moving up in life, I see,” says FP to Jughead, who rolls his eyes.

“He seemed to have business with Mr. Lodge,” Betty presses on. “Do you think he might be involved in this?”

FP shakes his head. “You don’t want to go there, kids. Hiram is a very dangerous man.”

“So give us something!” Betty pleads. “So we _don’t_ have to go there.”

“Why would someone want to frame you?” asks Jughead.

His father smiles smiles. “I’m an old snake by now, Jughead. Someone’s always looking for a reason to step on me. I’ll tell you this though, about El Dinero. Two nights before the drug bust, he gave us a job, which we politely declined. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that one bit.”

“What was the job?” asks Betty.

“Your old haunt, Jug,” he says, holding Jughead’s gaze with his. “That ratty hole of a drive-in you called a home. He wanted us to go up there and cause trouble, scare people away. More than that, he wanted it gone. Burned to the ground.”

“What?” whispers Jughead in disbelief.

“Your old man has a soft heart,” FP shrugs. “Maybe I ought to have done it myself. Men like El Dinero get their way sooner or later.”

Jughead stares at his father, then gets his phone out and walks a few yards down the hallway, leaving Betty alone with FP.

“Did Alice send you?” he asks her.

Betty shakes her head. “Mom doesn’t know I’m here.” She pushes her chin out a little, trying to look confident. “How do you know her anyway?”

FP laughs. “Oh, no, no,” he says. “If your mother found out I’d been telling campfire stories about her she’d have me drawn and quartered before you could say Jack Robertson.”

“Robinson,” Betty says automatically.

That earns her a tired glare. “I can see why he likes you.”

“She told me you went to school together,” Betty continues, pretending not to have heard that last remark.

“Mm,” he says. “Back when there was only one high school in Riverdale.”

“Time’s nearly up!” calls the officer from down the hall.

Jughead comes jogging back, putting his phone away. “He’s not picking up.”

“Who?” say Betty and FP as one.

“Ed, this guy from Ithaca who owns the chain of drive-ins around here. I need to get over to the Twilight, now.”

“Listen, son,” says FP, suddenly deadly serious. “If you’re going to go meddling in this, you best be careful, you hear?” He reaches out through the bars, clutching at Jughead’s arm. “I’m in here because I angered the wrong people. It was a stupid-ass thing to do, and now I’m taking the fall, as is right and proper. You hear me, boy?”

Jughead glares at him for a good while, his jaw working silently, before giving a terse nod.

The cop is walking towards them now, and Betty hurriedly leans in close.

“Mr. Jones,” she says quietly. “If we were to... ask around about the drugs, where would be a good place to start?”

“Jughead knows,” he says. Then his eyes twinkle and he flashes her a wolfish grin. “Or you could ask your mom. I’ll bet you anything she even kept the jacket.”

Betty frowns. “What?”

Then she feels a hand on her shoulder, and she’s being led away by the policeman. “Time to go, miss,” he says. “You too, little snake,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Just a sec,” says Jughead.

Betty waits while he shares a few words with his father. Before he leaves, he clasps FP’s forearm, slapping him reluctantly on the shoulder. When he comes down the hallway, he walks past Betty without a word, but she can see his eyes glistening.

Jughead roars the truck out of the parking lot so angrily that Betty is sure someone is going to come after them, waving the ticket book, but the rearview mirror remains empty as they careen towards the Twilight. She’s got so many questions, but right now is clearly not a good time. He’s trying to be subtle about wiping his nose on his sleeve, and to spare him the embarrassment, she turns to stare out the window at the streetlights, unseeing.

By the time they arrive at the drive-in, he’s calmed down, pulling up slowly to the entrance. They’re greeted there by a brand new security fence, adorned with a yellow sign sporting some kind of biohazard symbol.

“What the hell,” says Jughead.

He leaves the engine running and the headlights on as they step out to have a closer look. The sign bears the official stamps of the mayor of Riverdale and the New York State Department for Health and Safety.

KEEP OUT, it says. LEAD CONTAMINATED SOIL. DO NOT LET CHILDREN PLAY IN THE DIRT.


	11. Tales from the Darkside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week without Riverdale, but not another week without an update, at least!
> 
> My deepest most heartfelt thanks go out to [nimmieamee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nimmieamee/pseuds/nimmieamee) and [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily), for the massive improvements they've made to this story, in the form of pointing out my Swenglish slip ups, my silly Britishisms, but not least in dissecting and discussing characters, and ranting about and ripping up canon with all its faults.

_Let me tell you about sides. About the Southside, and the Northside, and our side, and their side._

_As a kid, I was free to roam the neighborhood. Fox Forest, Crystal Lake, Pickens Park; nothing south of the tracks was off limits or out of bounds. When it came to the Northside, however, dad was very precise._

_“You cross the tracks to go to Pop’s. No other reason to. Want to go to the mall? You don’t. The arcade on fifth? You don’t. The skate park behind the hospital? You_ don’t _.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because it’s more trouble than it’s worth, son.”_

_He was right, of course. Turn up in the wrong jacket and frayed jeans and someone is bound to start some shit. For a few glorious months, we made it our mission to annoy as many Northsiders as possible. Sometimes it was jocks, in which case you could either stay and have a little rumble (if some of the older guys were on hand), or have fun running away and getting them to chase after you (we soon learned who the sprinters were, and who we could run in endless circles). At other times, it was the stay-at-home moms in their camel hair coats and riding boots. You could only annoy them for a limited period of time, because these women didn’t fuck about; they called the cops._

_When I was thirteen, a security guard caught me sitting with my feet up in one of the sofas outside the restrooms in the mall. I also happened to be holding a packet of cigarettes for Sweet Pea, who was taking a leak. It was a school day, the prosecutor argued for truancy, and I got fourteen days in juvie._

_Dad saw me off, and even though he himself was a Serpent, a drunk, and a perpetual dealer in shady business, he had the stomach to feel disappointed in me. To lecture me. To tell me I’d put my foot in it and got what was coming to me._

_“Whose side are you on?” I said, fuming._

_“I’m on_ our _side, Jug,” he said in a low voice, jabbing his finger in my chest. “But you… You went there yourself. To the other side. The_ wrong _side. I have no power there, and neither do you. Understand?”_

_Juvie wasn’t all bad. Freckles Fogarty, who was three years older than me and strong as an ox, was serving three months for stealing a car and made sure I was left in peace. Once a day, we were taken to a classroom to listen to a teacher of some kind drone on about responsibilities and the future and staying on the right side of the law._

_There was a rickety bookshelf in that classroom, and by the end of my stay, I’d read all twenty-five books that made up its meagre collection. Some twice._

_“I don’t want to do what you do,” I said to dad when I got out._

_“Then what_ do _you want to do?” he asked, tipping his whiskey glass from side to side, watching the liquid inside make golden, shallow waves._

_“Write a book,” I said defiantly, petulant like a child._

_He raised his eyebrows and took a drink. “Good.”_

 

* * *

 

Betty knows her mother better than perhaps anyone else, and if there’s one thing that Alice absolutely detests, it’s not being the first to know. Most of the time, she refuses to even acknowledge the fact that she’s been left in the dark about something, and so it follows that her initial reaction to the news that the drive-in has been shut down is blind denial.

“Elizabeth, you came home six minutes past the curfew,” she says, unimpressed. “A simple apology would have sufficed. You don’t need to invent an alternate reality where Riverdale is rotting from the bottom up from fictional hazardous waste.”

“We’ve got pictures,” says Jughead, holding his phone out.

Alice takes it and pushes her glasses up, her face a mask of disinterest. She starts swiping through the camera roll, and Betty can practically feel Jughead trying his best to not lean forward and snatch the phone back.

“Mrs. Cooper,” he says in a pained voice as she quirks an eyebrow at something on the screen.

She hands him the phone, and gets to her feet. “I’m going to the office,” she says in a short voice.

“ _Now_?” Betty asks.

“The perfect scoop waits for no-one, Betty.”

Jughead reaches out for Alice’s arm, holding her back as she’s about to leave. “Will you let us…or me know? If you find out anything about the Twilight?”

Some sort of internal debate seems to be going in her mother’s head. Betty imagines she’s currently struggling with not only having to postpone a dressing down of her daughter for having spent the evening in questionable company, but also with wanting to withhold information from people who brought her a story.

“Fine,” she snaps. “As long as you leave the digging those of us who are equipped with the right kind of shovels.”

Once Alice has left, they're left alone to try and let the events of the evening sink in. Jughead raids the fridge in sullen silence while Betty sits at the table, hands in her lap, scraping gently at her scars, trying to untangle and catalogue her thoughts.

“Do you think there's really lead in the ground?” she asks when Jughead comes to sit opposite her.

“Mm-mm,” he says, shaking his head. “Someone wants that drive-in gone. You heard what my dad said. He refused, and now this shit turns up? It's too convenient.” He slides a plate her way. It's laden with an unholy combination of cold chicken wings, grapes and chocolate pop tarts.

“That's what I'm thinking,” she says, absentmindedly picking a grape off the cluster and popping it in her mouth. “So the big question right now is who? Hiram Lodge?”

“If the contamination is fake, then it's someone powerful. The city council is in on it somehow.”

“They could have been fed false information,” Betty suggests, but Jughead rolls his eyes at that.

“The people who run this town are hardly beyond reproach, Betty,” he says. He's silent for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “I want to know _why_ , though. What harm has that drive-in ever done anyone?”

 

* * *

 

They get their answer on the Sunday. Alice makes good on her promise, and that evening she gathers Betty and Jughead around the dining room table. There’s a bulging folder in the middle of it, and as Alice opens it, pictures and various documents slide out to one side. While Jughead picks up a photograph and studies it, Betty rifles through the pile of what appears to be page upon page of contracts and legal jargon.

“What am I looking at here?” she asks.

“All the official documents pertaining to the land currently leased by the Twilight franchise,” says Alice.

“Leased?” Jughead frowns. “From who?”

“A numbered company that I tracked back to the same family that’s owned half the town and more since time immemorial,” Alice says.

“The Blossoms,” say Jughead and Betty as one.

“Correct, only…” Alice leans forward and picks what looks like a deed of ownership from the pile and holds it up to them, “...since they’re contractually obliged to keep their land in some semblance of shape, they’re getting very eager to sell. Removing lead is apparently a very costly exercise, so they're hoping to push that particular problem onto someone else's plate.”

“But…who would ever want it?” asks Betty.

Alice holds out her phone. There's a picture of a computer screen, taken from what looks to be behind someone sitting at a desk. The picture is surprisingly sharp, showing some kind of bank transaction.

“An anonymous buyer,” says Alice. She narrows her eyes, looking from Betty to Jughead and back again. “I don't suppose you two gumshoes have any idea who might be interested in such a venture?”

They share a quick glance and shake their heads in mute unison.

“Hm,” huffs Alice, gathering the documents back into the folder.

“Well,” says Jughead lightly, getting to his feet and looking down at his watchless wrist. “It’s getting late and I have some homework to do. I think I’ll retire.”

“And I’m going to…” Betty starts, pointing vaguely towards the stairs.

“Retire?” says Alice pointedly.

Betty smiles. “I’m working on an article for the school paper.”

Her mother fixes her with her glare for a few long seconds. “Hm.”

Mere minutes after she’s back in her room, her phone hums.

 

9.43pm  
Window route?

9.43pm  
I don’t think we can risk it...  
Mom’s probably sitting on the landing with a loaded shotgun.

9.44pm  
Okay but do we definitely agree that HL is the anon buyer?

9.44pm  
Why though?

 

Seconds later, her phone starts buzzing, and she picks up. Jughead’s voice is quick and quiet on the other end of the line.

_“Did you see those maps of the land?”_

“Briefly,” Betty admits, keeping her voice to a near whisper. “Why?”

_“The lot extends way beyond the drive-in, all the way down to Sunnyside.”_

She has to think for a little while before she realizes what he’s talking about. “That… trailer park?” she asks.

Jughead snorts. _“Yeah, Betty. That trailer park where I grew up.”_

Pulling a face, she wants to kick herself for not knowing. “What do you think it means?” she asks.

_“Dad said they were asked to scare people off. To make the place seem unattractive and dangerous. Why would anyone want to do that, if not to devalue the land.”_

Betty falls quiet for a moment. “Mr. Lodge deals in property, and the price of land has been rising steadily…”

_“Well there’s your answer. He wants it gone, so he can build something else.”_

 

* * *

 

 

They corner Veronica in the break room at lunchtime on Monday, bringing Kevin for good measure. Betty lays out the evidence as politely as possible, all while Ronnie listens attentively, sitting primly at the edge of the break room sofa, her head cocked and her hands wrapped around her crossed legs.

“...So these documents that mom brought home show where-”

“Let me just stop you there, Betty,” says Veronica with a smile, holding her hand up. “No offense, but your mother has a way of twisting the facts, so let’s just get a thing or two straight here.”

“Okay,” says Betty, for the moment letting Ronnie believe that her mother is the one raising suspicion here.

“First of all, I absolutely shouldn’t be talking to you about this, because it’s Lodge Industries business, but since you guys _clearly_ have the wrong idea here, and since the papers have _de facto_ been signed…”

“So it _is_ Hiram buying that lot,” Jughead says, sitting up straighter. He sucks his lips in, gives a little shake of the head. “What does he want with it?” he demands. “Build the country club that the Southside has been deprived of all these years?”

Veronica huffs in indignation. “This is a charitable venture, Jughead! Believe it or not, but we _care_ about this town. Since the Blossoms won’t spend the time or money needed to make sure that land is free of toxins, you should be _happy_ that we’re picking up that torch. Without our investment, it could have been closed off for years, awaiting council funding.”

“Charitable,” says Jughead in a toneless voice.

“The question remains,” says Kevin. “What does he want with the land?”

“My father invests in property,” shrugs Veronica. “I won’t deny it. And why should I? Riverdale is growing, and people need somewhere to live. From what I understand, the whole area will get the facelift it so sorely needs-”

At that, Jughead gets up. “Bullshit,” he says, pointing at Ronnie, who leans back, aghast.

“Jughead,” says Betty warningly, getting to her feet as well, and placing a hand on his arm.

“No,” he says, shrugging her off. “It’s bullshit, plain and simple. People _already_ live there, Veronica. You’re turning real life human beings out of their homes.”

“To be fair, the land is contaminated,” says Kevin quickly. “They would have to relocate anyway.”

Jughead shakes his head slowly. “Even if I believed that - which I _don’t_ , by the way.” Here, he glares at Veronica. “But even if I believed that, there’s no way relocating is going to work in practice. I mean, what are the options here? Some of the Sunnysiders own their homes and might get cash compensation, but it’ll never _ever_ be enough to buy anything else, because it’s literally the roughest, cheapest property in the entire county. As for the ones who rent, well they’re just plain fucked. Am I right? Am I _right_?”

Veronica doesn’t move a muscle. “I’m sure they’ll be offered new housing in the same area at a very reasonable price,” she says calmly. “Discounted, even.”

“That sounds fair,” says Betty, looking to Jughead hopefully.

“Unbelievable,” says Jughead, snatching his empty can of Cherry Coke up from the table.

“What?” Betty asks, confused.

“You people are _unbelievable_ ,” he snarls, striding off, angrily tossing the empty soda at a trash can. It misses, and bounces off, but Jughead keeps walking, shoving the door open with unnecessary force as he leaves the room.

“Yikes,” says Veronica with a little laugh. “That took a dramatic turn.”

“I think he’s probably right though,” says Kevin carefully. “I’ve been to Sunnyside, and some of the people there are so poor I don’t think any amount of discount would make them able to afford brand new living quarters, V.”

“I’m sure a compromise can be reached,” says Veronica, her smile just a little strained.

Betty frowns. “That’s your father talking, Ronnie. Not you. A compromise? What does that even mean?”

“Really, Betty? You too? God, what _is_ it with you lately? Why do you suddenly have it in for me? And for daddy? He’s making _good_ things happen over at Southside. Now, will you _please_ just take my word for that?”

Betty hesitates. She tries to listen to her heart and her head both, only to find that they’re overwhelmingly in agreement. “I won’t,” she says finally, and gets up to follow Jughead.

She finds him on the benches outside his Earth Science classroom, nose-deep in his laptop and headphones in his ears. As she sits down next to him, she can’t help but see that he has a word document open, but as soon as he notices her, he slams the lid shut.

“What?” he says, pulling an earplug out.

“Last minute homework?” she asks. Apparently this deserves no more than a frown in reply, so she moves on. “I just wanted you to know that I think Ronnie’s wrong. And I told her so.”

He shrugs. “Okay. What do you want? A cookie?”

“No!” she says, a little annoyed. “I’m trying to say that I’m on your side.”

At that, Jughead shakes his head and chuckles. “Thanks Betty,” he says.

“What?” she asks, suspicious.

“Nothing,” he says, getting to his feet as the bell rings. “Nothing at all.”

 

* * *

 

When she gets out of her final period, she has two texts, one from Ethel, asking her to come by the school paper after school, and one from Jughead.

 

3.23pm  
Want a ride today? 

3.34pm  
Sure just swinging by the B&G first. Can we stop and pick some stuff up from the store?

 

Once she’s replied, she gets on with something that she’s been putting off the whole weekend - getting on her virtual knees and begging for forgiveness for having to miss yet another cheer practice tomorrow. Cheryl follows a strict three-strikes rule when it comes to skipping practice for no good reason, and although some might consider the French Club event a fair excuse, Betty knows she should be so lucky. As she walks towards the office, she scrolls through her list of messages, and an uneasy feeling in her stomach begins to grow. She can’t find the River Vixens group chat. She goes back up to the top, and slowly works her way down, looking carefully at each conversation, but no. Betty stops for moment, chews her lip, and then texts Cheryl.

 

3.36pm  
Hey Cheryl. I’ve somehow lost the RV chat. Invite me please?  
 

The three jumping dots appear almost immediately.

 

3.37pm  
No can do Betty dearest. GC is for River Vixens only.

3.37pm  
???

3.37pm  
Rules are rules.

3.37pm  
I missed one time??

3.38pm  
I heard you’re busy tomorrow as well so :)

 

Betty can feel her hands trembling as she types out her next reply.

 

3.38pm  
What happened to three strikes?

3.39pm  
That rules applies to above average Vixens. Sadly you do not count among them and your position has already been filled with a promising sophomore.

3.39pm  
You’re more than welcome to try out again next year :)

 

By now, she’s arrived outside T _he Blue and Gold_ , but she can’t bring herself to go in. Slowly, she puts the phone away and swallows once, twice, three times to get rid of the hot lump in her throat, but it sits where it sits, burning until her eyes start tearing up. Somehow, she already knows that once she walks inside that office, there’s going to be more news of the bad kind, and she can’t, can’t let it get to her. Not now. Not in school. Not when she’s going grocery shopping with Jughead, and baking, and…

Sharply, and with purpose she digs her nails into her palms. The action snaps her back inside her own head, and the short pang of pain followed by a rush of warm relief that radiates up her arms makes her completely calm. She opens the door. Ethel is inside.

“Betty, I’m sorry,” she says, clutching a paper to her chest.

 

* * *

 

Jughead is waiting in his truck in the school parking lot, and when he asks her what’s up, she hands him the letter from Weatherbee without a word and turns to look out the window. Ever since a tearful Ethel accepted her copy of the office keys, Betty’s state of mind has been bouncing between furious and flatlining, and she can feel another wave of anger on the rise.

“He did _what_?” says Jughead, eyeing through the letter.

“He took me off the school paper,” she says as calmly as she can manage.

“ _Temporarily relieved of your duties on suspicion of tampering with the school election…_ ” he reads, nodding slowly. “Well… Did you?”

Betty turns in her seat to glare at him. “No! What happened was, Kevin conducted a poll that showed a majority support for Veronica, and apparently someone–”

“ _Several individuals who prefer to remain unnamed_ ,” Jughead recites.

“Right, which in reality means three or more of Cheryl’s lackeys. So, I published the results of that poll last Friday, accompanied by an objective notice, and boom!” she slaps the dashboard, “they claim we’re all on Ronnie’s team and that we faked it and that the school paper can’t be trusted.”

Jughead raises his eyebrows and hands her the letter back, then starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. For a few blocks, Betty sits there, waiting for him to comment. The longer she waits, the more his silence rankles her, and the fact that she knows her grouchiness with him is somewhat irrational makes the whole thing so much worse. Finally he turns her way briefly, probably feeling her repeated glances.

“What?” he says.

“What?” she snaps back, even though she knows full well she’s openly sulking.

Jughead sighs. “What do you want me to say, Betty? I get that Cheryl Blossom is the antichrist and all, but you’re literally writing Veronica’s debate material. The accusation may be unfounded, but it’s not unreasonable.”

“Jughead, I _am The_ _Blue and Gold_! That paper wouldn’t even _exist_ without me. And Ethel’s great and I’m sure she’ll do her best to cover for me, but honestly I–”

“Funny story,” Jughead says, cutting her off. “I used to run the school paper over at Southside, did you know?”

Betty deflates in the middle of her indignant tirade, her anger fizzling at this unexpected personal fact, thrown at her. “No,” she says.

“I did,” he says, unnaturally gleeful. “I _was The_ _Red and Black_.”

“What happened?” she asks. The question slips out, carelessly, and before he even answers, she knows.

“I had to transfer schools,” he says, a steely note to the cheerfulness. “So, where did you want to go shopping?”

 

* * *

 

Never has Betty been more grateful for having something to occupy her hands than on this particular evening. She zooms around the kitchen, efficiently, expertly, effortlessly whipping together the choux pastry needed for the some eighty or ninety eclairs she’s making for Lilou Leclair’s performance tomorrow. She originally meant to make twice that number, but had been talked down gently but firmly by Melody, who was of the opinion that not _everyone_ needed to have an eclair.

But while baking keeps her hands busy, her brain gets free rein as soon as all the reading and measuring and piping is done. Two minutes after putting the first batch in the oven, she finds herself grinding her teeth, thinking about the school paper. Quickly, she walks over to the window and turns the radio on and lets the tinny sound of a summer hit from a couple of years back drown out her fretting. She hums along, staring out into the yard. _Cheryl…_ she thinks. Cheryl is at the eye of every storm as usual. _How does anyone have the time and energy to be so mean?_ She decides she doesn’t care about cheerleading, and that she’s glad she got the boot. _But_ , she thinks, _the college applications_...

Then her phone gives a little bleep, and her belly squirms in a weird mix of hope and despair as she pulls it out of her pocket. By now, Veronica's singing class has finished, and maybe, maybe… But no, it's her mom, informing her that she'll be working late and that there's salmon and quinoa salad in the fridge.

Shaking the disappointment off, she puts the phone away again. She can deal with Ronnie later - there’s more piping to be done, and chocolate crème patissèrie to worry about.

 

* * *

 

 

Jughead saunters into the kitchen at half past seven. He eyes the mountain of unfilled eclairs on the counter hungrily, but thinks better of it when Betty shoots him an annoyed glance.

“Where’s Mrs. C?” he asks, picking at a few chocolate flakes from the chopping board and licking them off his fingers.

“Working,” says Betty, stirring the melted chocolate into the egg and cream. “There’s salmon salad in the fridge.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” he mutters, then get the sandwich toaster from the top cupboard. “Grilled cheese?”

Betty barely hears the question, and the “No,” that slips out, little more than a desperate breath, is nothing to do with toast and everything to do with the contents of the saucepan in front of her.

It’s splitting. She took a chance and tripled the recipe and now it’s _splitting_. The cream is suddenly floating around in lumps in an unappetizing, chocolate soup, and the more she stirs, she worse it gets.

“No, no, no…” she can hear herself saying.

There’s a soft noise, like the swell of the sea, rising and rising, as though it’s preparing to break against the shore, but the crash never comes. Instead, the sound intensifies, fills her ears and her head, and even her eyes, it seems, because suddenly she can’t see straight.

“What’s going on?”

It’s Jughead’s voice, but it sounds so far away. _I don’t know_ , she says, but she can’t hear herself say the words. _I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening_.

“Hey!”

His voice is right next to her ear. He’s so close she can feel his breath on her neck, his arms in her armpits. _Why?_ Then the surging in her ears comes to an abrupt end, and in the echoing silence, she realizes her legs aren’t carrying her weight, and that Jughead is.

“Oh god,” she says, struggling to her feet. Her legs are trembling, and she feels cold, so cold that she can’t help her teeth from chattering. “Oh god, oh god…”

“You should go lie down,” says Jughead. He’s still got his arms at her sides, letting them hover there.

“I need to finish this,” says Betty, turning to the saucepan. But the cream has split. She knew this already, but it’s somehow still a fresh slap in the face. “No,” she says. It’s a meek little whine.

“I think what you need is rest, Betty.”

“No, you don’t understand. I _need_ to finish these. I–”

But she doesn’t get further than that before her voice is cut off by another wave of dizziness, and she leans against the counter, grabbing it so tightly her fingers whiten. She can’t feel her feet. She can’t _breathe_. She gulps down air, but somehow it’s not going down her lungs.

“Come on,” says Jughead, pulling at her arm.

_I can’t. I can’t!_ She wants to scream, but she _can’t_. She sucks in air until her chest hurts, but no words come out. And then his arms are around her, firm and steady and strong, and she clings to him like a drowning girl to a piece of driftwood. Slowly, she sinks to the floor, her legs limp and useless. _Is this how I die? Is this what dying feels like? What drowning feels like?_ Her lungs ache for air, but no matter how hard she breathes, she can’t get enough, and despair crashes down on her in wave upon wave upon wave.

After some time - maybe minutes, maybe more - the worst of it passes. There’s no storm anymore, just a gentle, soothing swaying back and forth. It’s Jughead, her brain registers, almost in passing, still hugging her tight and rocking her like a baby. And she is still clinging, her left hand clutching the back of his shirt so hard her fingers have stiffened. Somewhere deep inside her, an intense feeling of shame starts stirring.

“Sorry,” she says, beginning to disentangle herself from him, and with his help, she stands up again.

“Let's get you to bed,” says Jughead, one hand still tentatively under her elbow.

Betty wants to protest, to say that she's fine, but the truth is, she feels _far_ from fine, her head swimming and her legs still trembling with chills. They make it up the stairs and into her room somehow. She sinks down on the bed and draws a shuddering breath, and remnants of the chest pains flutter through her.

Jughead searches her face. “Has this happened before?” he asks.

She shakes her head slowly. Unexpectedly, a big, ugly sob lurches up through her throat, and just like that the storm gathers speed again, only this time the squall comes from inside, pouring out.

“Hey, hey,” says Jughead, and she vaguely registers him sitting down next to her. “Can I…? Shit... Do you want a hug, Betty?”

_Yes. So, so much_. She nods, once. Her eyes are blurring, overflowing, so she shuts them as she tips over on her side, sinking down into the soft bed with Jughead’s arms around her once more.

His chest is warm and solid and she buries her face against it as she cries. At first it’s all uncontrollable, undignified sobbing of the kind you think will go on forever, and when she does stop, it’s more from exhaustion than anything else. The world comes slowly into focus. Her room is dark now, she notices. She begins to feel her feet again, and the sounds of Jughead’s calm, regular breaths gradually become clearer. There’s something wet and sticky on her cheek, and with sudden, somewhat numb horror she realizes that it’s his t-shirt, stained with her tears, not to mention–

“Crap,” she mumbles, reaching up to wipe ineffectually at the snot off with her arm.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Jughead, swatting her away and pulling his flannel shirt over the stain to cover it. “It’s seen way worse.”

She hiccups and sniffs, wiping her nose as discreetly as she can with the sleeve of her shirt. “I’m sorry,” she says, because she doesn’t know what else to say. “I don’t know what happened, I… I just. I don’t know.”

“I’m pretty sure you had a panic attack,” he says calmly. “It happens. You’re okay.”

_Does it? Does it happen?_ Right now, she’s too drained to give it any further thought, and it feels good, just lying here. His arms are still wrapped around her, his chin resting on her head; if she had the guts, she’d ask him to stay with her, but she settles for not saying anything and hoping for the best.

By the time he climbs out of her bed, she’s fast asleep.


	12. All Good Things

_Let me tell you about good things._

_Good things come to those who wait, some say. I know for a fact that’s wrong. I waited for three years for mom to come back to us, and when she finally did, the first thing she did was to move out. The Southside waited for a year, maybe two, after the factory closed. Parts of it is still waiting, I suppose, for the state of things to end, one way or another._

_All good things must come to an end, some say. And I know for a fact that’s true. I learned soon enough to enjoy things while they lasted._

_At times, when she was awake and almost happy, mom would read to us, Jellybean and I. We had a small number of children’s books, brightly coloured and with not too much text on each page. In truth, I was much too old for them, JB much too small, but when mom was in that placid, warm mood, I would silently fetch them, one after the other for as long as I dared, and then one more for good measure. I felt bad afterwards, for making her tired again, but I couldn’t help it, couldn’t help wanting that feeling to last just a little longer._

_We had good ice cream in the freezer once. I don’t know where it came from, because it was a brand you couldn’t get in the local store. Expensive. Rich. That Friday, dad brought it out while we were watching TV. Not long after, trouble came knocking. Dad answered, and disappeared outside. Mom sighed, and went after him. Quickly, I scooped about a third of the ice cream onto Jelly’s plate, and then set to eating the rest of it, straight out of the tub._

_“Juggie,” said Jellybean when someone cursed outside, her voice small and worried._

_“Shh, eat your ice cream,” I said, turning the TV up._

_Thuds and bangs followed, and I gulped down so much I got a brain freeze. With Jellybean’s head under one arm, covering her ears, I ate as much as I could manage before dad burst back in to pull us out and throw us in the back of the truck._

_“Leave that,” he said, angrily tearing the ice cream tub out of my hands and tossing it aside, spoon and all._

_As for Betty Cooper, she was the best thing to happen to me for a long time, and I would have been an idiot not to enjoy it while it lasted._

 

* * *

 

The sound seeps slowly through to the dark, comfortable sleep-snug that is Betty's mind. It takes a few buzzes before she registers what it is, and even when she realizes that it's her phone, she simply lies there for a few moments, waiting for it to stop, waiting for whoever is calling at this ungodly hour to think better of it and hang up. But the light on her eyelids is bright and orange, and reluctantly she stirs, slips a hand under the pillow and fumbles around. The phone isn't there though; it's in her pocket, humming against her thigh.

That insight wakes her completely, and the memories of last night hit her with a truck of shame in the face. She throws the covers aside and looks down at her fully-clothed self. With her gritty eyes, a crinkled shirt and jeans that feel positively crusty, she’s reminded of the morning after that one time she had too many just-over-dinner glasses of wine at Ronnie’s, only minus the headache.

Before getting out of bed, she spends a couple of minutes googling ‘panic attack’, ‘anxiety’, ‘anxiety attack symptoms’ and variations thereof. The results are pretty conclusive. The dizziness, the chest pains - it all fits. _One of the most common causes is stress_ , she reads. This also makes sense, she supposes. She doesn’t know what to do with this information. Will it happen again? Right now, it feels unlikely. The details of the events of the previous evening are hazy and slippery in her mind, as though part of her is trying to study the memory, while another part is doing its best to forget it ever happened.

The hot stream of the shower washes away the grimy sensation of having slept in her clothes, but the uneasy feeling of shame and uncertainty in her belly only grows. What is she supposed to say to Jughead? To Melody? For the first time since the back to school dance in her sophomore year, she considers the possibility of skipping school and just slipping back under the covers. Deep down she knows there's no use in trying to put it off, and especially not the inevitable awkwardness of meeting her unlikely savior from last night. Jughead, after all, lives here.

She dresses in the most responsible, honest clothes she can think of - a cream colored cardigan and light blue jeans - while she tries to think of excuses for Melody. For a brief, ecstatic second, she thinks to phone Veronica and ask her if Smithers could swing by Cindy Cinnamon’s at the mall and simply _buy_ some eighty chocolate eclairs, but then she remembers that Veronica probably hates her right now.

The house is quiet as she walks downstairs, her mom presumably either still at the _Register_ or else fast asleep. Jughead's alarm is set at least half an hour later than her own so she has a bit of time yet to build up new anxiety over what she's supposed to say to him-

She freezes there, both mentally and physically, because on the kitchen counter sit five neatly packed Tupperware containers, filled to the bursting point with what appears to be her eclairs, now most definitely _avec chocolat_.

“Hope they're up to scratch.”

It's Jughead, coming up behind her, hands in his pockets, eyes hesitantly hopeful.

“How…” Betty begins, looking at him, at the eclairs, and then back to him, clasping at her cheeks, trying to get a grip on reality.

“Mrs. C helped,” he says with a little shrug.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, when she got back home yesterday she insisted on doing the icing because apparently some gender norms have to be upheld.”

“ _Mom_?” says Betty again, still in disbelieving shock.

“Mostly me though,” he hurries to say. “And though it pains me greatly to say it, I haven't tasted a single one. Alice saw to that.”

Betty gestures at the boxes, still too stunned to string a coherent sentence together. “This is… it's…”

Jughead flashes her a smile, making something inside Betty flicker and spark. The dizzying feeling of relief and gratitude, and the lingering memory of his arms, fast and firm around her last night, all coalesce into the most acute need to kiss him, and before she can stop herself, she's on her tiptoes. It's little more than a quick peck, landing on somewhere between his cheek and mouth, and even as she pulls away, she's kicking herself mentally for being such an impulsive coward.

“Thank you,” she says hurriedly, because she means it, and because it can _almost_ excuse her behavior in case he disapproves.

But Jughead smiles again, briefly, a triumphant glimmer in his eyes, before he steps close to cup her head in his hands. She knows then that he doesn't disapprove at all, and the fraction of a second he takes to let his eyes flicker between hers is all sweet anticipation. Then he leans down to kiss her. A proper kiss this time.

In the golden, bright light of morning, everything seems supremely real. There are no shadows to hide in, no soft darkness to envelop her doubts, and she feels remarkably _aware_. Of his hands trembling slightly as they seek out her hair, fingers burying gently in the taut tresses and the dip at the nape of her neck. Of the sun on her cardigan, warming her shoulder blades. Of her own hands coming to rest awkwardly on his hips, scared to venture any further, and of how easy it seems to soften and yield when he parts his lips, inviting her in. As they kiss, she hovers somewhere between utterly indulgent and extremely self-aware, and the one thing that lets her keep her cool is the knowledge that he too thought this felt good last time around.

“Betty…” he says then, pulling away a little. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, and then hesitates. _Was the kiss not okay this time? Was something else not okay?_ “I mean… Why?”

“Because last night was, ah, pretty intense, you know?”

“Oh, that!” she says, a little surge of guilt welling up inside her. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thank you. And thank you again. For that.” Truth be told, she doesn’t really want to think about it.

“So, this,” he says, motioning at her, then at himself. “Is this you trying to be polite, or…?”

She frowns. “Polite?” Then she remembers the little scene she had with Alice outside the bathroom last week. “ _Oh_. Ugh, I’m sorry you had to hear that. But you know, mom…”

“I know,” he says. “And in that case, what took you so long?” While the words are confident, his voice is a little unsteady.

“ _Me_?” That he had been waiting for _her_ to make a move is brand new information. “I wasn't sure you actually…You know.”

He glances at the ceiling and snorts softly. “Christ,” he says, giving a little shake of the head, before kissing her again.

They’re interrupted by the hurried steps of her mom descending the stairs, and reluctantly, Betty puts some distance between them.

“Foiled again,” says Jughead with a smirk.

“For now,” she says, boldly following up with an eyebrow raised suggestively.

 

It really is _such_ a bad idea, she thinks, as she glances across the table to catch Jughead’s eye at breakfast. She’s rewarded with a dangerously lengthy gaze, and something that’s not exactly a smile - something that feels even better, and that makes her decide it’s _totally_ worth it, not matter how bad an idea it is.

“What are you looking so smug about?” snaps Alice. She’s frowning suspiciously at Jughead over her coffee, finger still hovering over her phone from checking the latest news flashes.

Jughead gives a little start, transforming in a split second from tall, dark and handsome into a beanie-wearing rabbit in Alice Cooper’s headlights.

“Probably the fact that he managed to sneak an eclair before I came downstairs,” says Betty, feigning mild annoyance.

“Incorrigible,” mutters Alice, as if this were a repeat offense, before returning to scrolling down her Twitter feed.

Afterwards, when Betty is rinsing her bowl in the sink, he comes to stand next to her.

“Nice save,” he says in a low voice.

Betty leans over to check the dining room, and as soon as she’s made sure her mom is still preoccupied with her phone, she reaches up for him and pulls him down into another kiss.

“She absolutely _cannot_ know,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

They kiss again, and again, hot, light, feathery touches.

“This is _such_ a bad idea,” she whispers.

His lips are soft and warm, and she can taste his smile.

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

She spends the morning in a state of heightened awareness, her skin buzzing with nerves and barely contained giddiness. Jughead sits next to her in English as usual, and when he lets his knee brush against hers, it sends thrills up her thigh that land low in her belly. She’s listening attentively to Mr. Hernandez, but although she can hear every single word clearly, none of them seem to make sense, or stick in her brain, and she walks out of the room with a bunch of notes she can’t remember taking and a wistful glance at Jughead, heading off to a different class.

 

Second period for her is European History, and automatically, she hurries towards the table she normally shares with Veronica, because she’s bubbling with the need to tell her that the _sort of something_ she’s had with Jughead has turned into an _almost_ definitely _something_. But Veronica is sitting two rows back, talking and laughing with Josie McCoy, and Betty’s happiness catches in her throat for a moment. She slides in next to Ethel instead, and as soon as the bell rings, she gets her phone out to call Kevin.

 _“I was just about to call you, actually,”_ he says. _“We need to talk.”_

“Yes, we do. Lunch later?”

_“Walking lunch.”_

Walking lunch means going to Bernadette’s Bagels and bringing the food and the takeout coffees to the little garden behind the hospital, a couple of blocks away from the school. The sun is beaming down on them, the rhododendron bushes are in bloom, and there’s a hint of early summer in the air. Apart from an elderly man with a walker, scooting around the fountain at a snail-like pace, they’re alone and able to discuss most anything, secrets big and small, without fear of interruption.

“Do you want to go first, or should I?” Kevin asks.

“You go,” she says.

“ _Well_ , I saw Joaquin the other night– stop that!” he says sternly, because she can’t help but grin at him. “This is serious stuff, Betty. He’s been making some subtle inquiries with the older Serpents, families who have been in the business for years...”

“The business,” she echoes. “What, the business of gang crime?”

He rolls his eyes at her. “You know what I mean. The point _is_ , none of them believe Jughead’s dad had anything to do with those drugs. It’s, like, not even remotely plausible. Apparently this rival gang, the Ghoulies, is the major source of hard drugs on the Southside, so the theory among the Serpents is, one of _them_ planted the drugs.”

“And then managed to steal it back?” asks Betty. “Because they’re still missing, aren’t they?”

“To be honest, I still think that was an inside job. That’s what’s bothering dad the most, at least - the fact that he might have a dirty cop on the crew.”

“Maybe it’s both?” suggests Betty. “A dirty cop who made a deal with these Ghoulies?” She likes this theory, because it means that maybe, Veronica’s dad _isn’t_ the one responsible for this particular part of Jughead’s life being turned upside down.

“It’s possible,” says Kevin. “Anyway, I thought you guys might be interested. You know, Joaquin is genuinely upset that Jughead doesn’t seem to care.”

“I think he does care,” says Betty. “But it seems like FP hasn’t done much to inspire confidence in past.”

They sip their coffee in silence for a few minutes, contemplating fathers, before Kevin turns to her.

“What was it that you wanted to tell me?” he asks.

Betty heaves a sigh. “Oh boy,” she says, running her fingers over her hair, smoothing it down and tightening her ponytail. “First of all, Cheryl kicked me off the Vixens.”

He blinks in disbelief. “What? Why?”

“Because she hates me?” says Betty with a little laugh. She can already feel the tears prickling her eyes, clawing at her throat, so she moves on swiftly. “And Weatherbee took me off _The Blue and Gold_ , and–”

“Wait, _what_?” says Kevin and puts his coffee on the ground before reaching up to grab her shoulder gently.

“–and _then_ I, I don’t know, freaked out in the kitchen last night and had a panic attack or something and–” she stops to sniff, which only serves to trigger an onslaught of emotions, the memory of herself spiraling out of control suddenly vivid and raw. She’s not completely sure why she’s crying _now_ , but the tears keep coming all the same.

“Shh,” Kevin hushes her, pulling her into a tight hug.

“I’m okay,” she says, sniveling, and she kind of is. After everything, it feels good to have a normal cry about it.

Once she’s calmed down, she elaborates on her ordeals with the cheerleading and the school paper, and they spend a satisfying few minutes trashtalking Cheryl and Weatherbee alike.

“Assholes, both of them,” Kevin declares firmly.

“But all of that isn’t actually what I wanted to tell you,” says Betty. “That too, sure, but it wasn’t the main thing.”

“My god, there’s more?”

“It’s kind of… good?” she says. Thinking back to the kiss sends butterflies fluttering through her chest, and she clears her throat, a little flustered by what she’s about to tell him. “Like I said, I had some kind of anxiety attack last night, and Jughead was there, and, um…”

“Oh my god,” Kevin says in a low voice. “You and Jughead? I knew it! I _knew_ it! You two have the weirdest perfect imperfect chemistry, you know?”

“I haven’t even told you anything yet! He was there with me when it happened, and he took care of me, you know? Helped me through it, and calmed me down, and got me into bed and–”

He draws a sharp breath. “Don’t tell me you guys had sex. Because while I wholeheartedly approve of Bitter Beanie Boy, nothing good ever comes of relationships based on a magical healing penis.”

“Kevin!” Betty hisses, blushing furiously.

There’s a sound of gravel crunching abruptly, and they both look up to find that the elderly man with the walker has stopped a few feet away, and is now staring at them with open disapproval.

“Can we help you?” Kevin asks him pointedly, and the man scoots on, shaking his head to himself.

“We kissed, that’s all,” says Betty in a hushed voice. “And that was this morning, because of the eclairs.”

“The eclairs?”

“Nevermind the eclairs,” she says, waving her hand. “The point is, I am no longer Betty Cooper, unkissed and tragic, and I’ve been bursting to tell someone all morning.”

“You’ve been kissed before, Betty,” he says, bumping his knee playfully into hers. “By me, remember? And Ronnie, and Reggie and a bunch of people on that camping trip in eighth grade if I recall correctly. And you were _never_ tragic.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know, and I’m happy for you.” He gives her a quick one-armed hug. “So. A kiss is a good start, but whither now, and how?”

She bites her lip. This is new territory for her, in every sense, and she’s not sure what she wants. Not to mention what _he_ wants. The only thing she knows for certain is that she’s been replaying that kiss in her head all morning, and that she can’t wait to do it again.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Hopefully another kiss? And then maybe another?”

Kevin looks unimpressed. “Betty, you _live_ with the guy. Get ready to raise that bar, STAT.”

 

* * *

 

Despite what Kevin said, living with someone, it seems, is no guarantee for spending actual time together. Betty considers making quick work of her responsibilities at the French Club event, but when she learns that Jughead has his weekly appointment with social services, and that Archie has asked him to come over after, she ends up staying until the very end and getting a ride home with Melody instead.

When she kicks her shoes off on the doormat, Jughead’s sneakers are missing, which means he’s probably still next door. She bites back the urge to text him, and instead heats her dinner up in the microwave. Taking the plate with her, she settles on the sofa next to Alice, who is watching the news. She’s cradling a steaming mug of coffee, which probably means she’s working late again.

“How did the show go?” asks her mom after a while.

“Good,” says Betty. She pushes a piece of potato around on the plate aimlessly; she’d hoped they wouldn’t have to talk any more about this than absolutely necessary. “Thank you again for the help,” she says quietly.

“Never let it be said that a Cooper doesn’t deliver what they’ve promised,” she says and takes a sip of coffee.

The thinly veiled dig stings more than it ought to; by now, Betty should be used to being a constant disappointment. Alice leaves it at that, though, with no further questions as to why her daughter randomly abandoned her baking and went to bed before eight. This suits Betty just fine, so she quickly changes the subject.

“How do you know Jughead’s dad?” she asks, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of her mother by springing the question on her unexpectedly.

Alice doesn’t as much as flinch. “I told you, we went to school together.”

“But they’re from the Southside,” says Betty.

Alice raises an eyebrow, looking deep into her mug. “Southside High opened in ninety-one,” she says. “We were all at Riverdale High before then.”

 _We_. The small word chafes uncomfortably. _Who’s the we here, mom?_ “Do you still know him?”

“FP?” says her mom and scoffs. “God, no.”

“So, explain to me, _why_ exactly…”

“I told you that as well, Betty,” Alice cuts her off. “The compensation is… generous.”

“It’s not like we’re short on money.”

At that, her mother draws a deep breath and shakes her hair back. “ _Well_ ,” she says.

Suddenly, Betty is worried. “Are we?” she asks.

“Your father still pays child support, but nonetheless… It’s not the same as having two full-time incomes, and we all know how well the printed press is doing these days.”

Betty feels like she’s been plunged into a tub of icy water. “Why haven’t you said anything, mom?” she asks. “I should help. I can get a weekend job, or help out at the Register, or…”

“Sit down, Betty,” says Alice sharply. “Or are you planning on starting a midnight paper run right this very moment?”

She sinks back down on the sofa; she hadn’t even noticed getting up.

“There’s no need to worry,” her mother continues. “We’re getting by just fine, and you have your final year ahead of you still. I won’t let anything get in the way of Columbia, do you hear me?”

Betty nods, but feels none the calmer for her mother’s words. The seed is planted now, and she wonders just how bad it is. All the late nights working, jumping on her and Jughead’s story faster than a bullet, and keeping the Register up and running virtually on her own - it all makes more sense now. She scrapes her fingers over her scars, nails catching on the flaky edges, worrying at them.

“Mom,” she says, forcing the word out. “If I tell you something, will you promise to try and get it confirmed from another source?”

Alice puts her coffee down. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s Hiram Lodge, buying that land,” she blurts out. “And I think maybe the whole lead contamination is faked, to make the deal more profitable.”

Her mom sits up straighter. “You _think_?”

“I know he’s buying it for sure. The rest is guesswork.” Alice cocks her head suspiciously, so Betty continues. “Ronnie told me, okay? And I’m pretty sure she trusts me not to say anything to you. I expect they’ll go public sooner or later, but, you know... If you need a good story to lead with in the next few days.”

Alice smiles, and cups Betty’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re getting your priorities right, sweetie,” she says. “I’ll make sure to keep your name out of it.”

She hurries over to the table and her laptop, leaving Betty on the sofa, feeling torn, traitorous and righteous all at once. Then her phone buzzes in her pocket, making her jump slightly. The thrill of excitement that flashes through her when she sees Jughead’s name on the screen is bordering on uncomfortable.

 

8.36pm  
Are you home?

 

Ignoring any and all ambition to appear carefree and cool, she replies immediately with a ‘yes’.

 

8.36pm  
Go to my room?

 

Another chill goes through her. She feels almost sick with nerves now. Quickly, she gathers her plate up.

“I'm going upstairs to do homework,” she tells her mom on her way into the kitchen, then immediately regrets the little announcement. It's not like she usually _says_ something like that.

Luckily, Alice seems too preoccupied to even notice, and she neither looks up from her laptop nor replies. As she hurries up the stairs, Betty wonders if he's been at home all this time, but when she knocks softly on his door, there's no sound coming from inside. She gets her phone out again.

 

8.39pm  
Are you in there?

 

The reply comes after a few seconds.

 

8.39pm  
No just go inside

 

She cracks the door open slowly, peeking into the dark room. Although she and Polly were close when her sister still lived here, entering without her permission always felt like overstepping some boundary. The older they grew, the more privacy Polly insisted on, and in the last couple of years before she moved out, once she had started dating Jason, her room had been strictly off limits.

Betty closes the door carefully behind her and turns on a small lamp on the desk, and a soft, peach colored light spreads. It's still very much her sister's room, she thinks. Some of Jughead's clothes are thrown over a chair in the corner, the bed is unmade, and the bedside table is crowded by an old book and three glasses of water in various stages of evaporation, but apart from that, there’s not much to give away the new occupant. Not least because he’s not there himself.

Betty looks down at her phone, which stays silent, then types.

 

8.41pm  
What now?

 

An answer comes in the form of a gentle _tap-tap_ on the window that sets her heart pounding hard, and not with fear. When she slides it open, Jughead is perched on the ledge, steadying himself with a hand on her dad's old ladder.

“What are you doing?” she asks, looking out behind him to make sure no one else is watching.

“I forgot to leave it open earlier,” he says, and climbs inside.

“But… _why_ …”

He glances aside, scratching at his hair under the beanie. “Well, your mom thinks I'm at Archie's, and…”

And Betty connects the dots. At least she hopes so. Another surge of anxiousness makes her feel hot all over, and she swallows uncertainly. They're standing close already, but she leans towards him, her hand seeking out his arm.

She needn't have worried about second times, or third.

This time, their kisses are hurried, urgent, and in a most un-Betty-like manner, she slips her arms around his neck, and when his hands find their way to her waist, she allows herself to soften and melt into him. When he eventually stops to rest his forehead against hers, it's with a shaky breath that makes her heart sing.

“I missed you,” she whispers, desperately needing to tell him so, but afraid to say it out loud.

He snorts gently. “It's been, what, five hours since Algebra?”

She tugs at his t-shirt, backing them up against the bed. “Nevertheless,” she says, shuffling awkwardly backwards up onto it.

He follows, climbing up after her, kissing her into the soft mattress until she has to reach back and tug her ponytail loose, and he runs his fingers through her hair, down her neck, over her shoulder, leaving burning shivers in their wake.

 

* * *

 

A little later, they've settled on the bed. Her head is resting on his chest, his fingers playing idly with her hair. She feels good here, his steady breathing lulling her almost into believing that this is their new normal, that they can just _be_ , and be content. But no matter how well Betty would like it, they don’t exist in a vacuum, and right now, what she has begun to think of as their _case_ is prodding her for attention.

“I talked to Kevin today,” she says.

“Okay,” says Jughead, his hand growing still.

He's clearly waiting for her to go on, so she gives him a quick debrief of the lunchtime meeting. As she speaks, she can feel him tensing up a little.

“Your dad said you knew who to ask,” she says after a while, when he still hasn't said anything back. “About the drugs.”

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “I’ll go over there tomorrow, maybe Thursday. I have to see Sweet Pea anyway.”

Sweet Pea. This must be the ex. The name rattles around uncomfortably in her chest. _Sweet Pea_. It conjures up an image of a petite, perky girl with jet black bangs, a polka dot bandana and alluring hips; Betty is already intensely jealous of her.

“I'll come with you,” she suggests in a light voice.

 _He'll say no_ , she thinks. She _knows_ he will. His Southside life is still dark and vague to her, and she has a feeling he prefers to keep it that way.

“Alright,” he says, to her surprise. “Give you that guided tour of the slums. A one time offer, for the crème de la crème of Riverdale to get down and dirty with the dregs of the Southside sewers.”

“Shut up,” she says, kicking his leg playfully.

He’s quick on the uptake and teases her back, poking her in the side until she squirms. Betty can give as good as she gets, though, and she assaults his ribs with her fingers, making him chuckle and twitch.

“Regular price is twenty bucks,” he says, slapping her hands away, “but a private viewing is going to set you back, ooh, I'd say half a C.”

He goes for her neck, unwittingly hitting Betty's ticklish kryptonite, and she grabs one wrist, then the other, trying to hold him off.

“Not there!” she breathes through her giggles.

“No?” He wrenches a hand free, going for her again. “Not where? Here?”

“I'm serious!” she says, and her knee jerks up reflexively, hitting him hard on the thigh.

“Oof,” he grunts. “ _Jesus_.”

She catches his wrists again, pushing up on her knees and pinning his arms over his head on the pillow. “Yield,” she demands.

“I yield,” he says, but his grin, his wiry arms, taut as springs, tell a different story.

Before he can wriggle out of her grip again, though, she bends down and presses her lips against his. It turns him boneless and limp, and he hums as he kisses her back slowly, his tongue swiping lazily against hers. He twists a hand free gently and reaches up to let his fingers trail over her side. When they reach the shallow ridge where her bra cuts into her skin, he traces it down, following the curve of her breast. They've stopped kissing now, but their lips are still touching, breathing the same air, and Betty wonders vaguely if this would be a good time to straddle him.

Then his phone vibrates against her leg, and with a low groan, he reaches down and pulls it out.

“Shit,” he mutters. “It’s five to ten. Time to make an appearance at the front door.”

He gets up, and without him, the air around her feels curiously cold. Even before he opens the window, she starts shivering, and when the night wind throws a gust in her face, she has to hug herself to not tremble visibly. Once he’s climbed out, Betty quickly makes the bed while her head spins a web of questions out of threads of doubt. What does it all mean? Whither now, and how? Kevin’s words hang in the darkness of the bedroom, daring her to mentally venture beyond kisses. As for the bar - well, it’s been raised, but how far will it go? It’s amazing how fast she can go from enjoying a moment of pure, heady excitement to wallowing in anxiety.

Before Jughead makes it back upstairs, she sneaks into her own room and gets changed. Then she goes to brush her teeth, to wash her face, walking slowly past his door both ways. To keep herself from literally pacing, she looks at her notes from English, reading each hastily scribbled sentence over twice, three times, and comes away none the wiser. She doesn’t _want_ to wait for her phone to buzz, but once it does, she’s scrambling over the bed to get it from her jean pocket.

 

10.08pm  
You made the bed

 

10.08pm  
What kind of pedantic monster

 

10.08pm  
Why

 

She grins sheepishly. Why indeed. Something about wanting to cover up their defiling of Polly’s bed perhaps. But she can’t tell him that. She paces a few steps, staring at the phone. Then she puts it down to pull her hair out of its current messy bun shape. Out of old habit, she ties it into a ponytail. She pulls that out, too, and picks the phone up again. ‘Making it up once a month doesn’t hurt’ she types, and then erases it before hitting send. Then, ‘I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’ Then, ‘I didn’t think you were planning on sleeping in it’. Typing it out makes her shiver again. She wants to send it, but her fingers feel stiff, slow, unwilling to do her bidding. Then the phone hums in her hand.

 

10.12pm  
I don’t know what it is you’re writing for that long but consider my expectations through the roof

 

She deletes her own message, furiously smashing the back button, then clutches the phone to her chest briefly, before typing out a reply, hands trembling.

 

10.12pm  
Sorry

 

10.12pm  
Had to put the phone down

 

10.12pm  
Force of habit with the bed I guess ;)

 

The phone is silent after that, and for a lack of anything else to do, she brings her Biology book to bed and lies there, not reading at all, instead agonizing over her text messaging choices.


	13. The Art of Communication

_Let me tell you about the time Betty Cooper tried to talk to me about her, and me, and what was going on between us._

_“What’s going on?” she asked. The between us was implied._

_“Something good,” I wanted to say._

_Too good, maybe. I didn’t want to look at it too hard, because it felt like trying to chasing a rainbow. I wanted to linger in limbo, to stay in the Matrix for a while longer, and I hated her for asking._

_“I barely know you,” she said._

_“Good,” I wanted to say._

_It seemed like she didn’t realize that this was in fact the very foundation of whatever the hell was going on between us._

_“But I know that I like you. And what we’ve been doing.”_

_“Me too,” I wanted to say. “_ God _, me too.”_

_Kissing Betty was so easy. Too easy. Even when everything else was complicated and uncertain, kissing her felt like the easiest thing in the world. To say I liked it was one hell of an understatement. Hearing_ her _say it was a terrifying kind of relief._

_“I don’t want to be some rebound,” she said._

_Of all the things to worry about, she picked this one._

_"You’re not,” I wanted to say. “Toni was kicked out by her uncle, you know, Ty’s dad. And she crashed at mine for a few weeks. Things happened. I mean, shit, you saw the bed. That night you came to the drive-in. You can’t share that bed without practically sleeping on top of each other. So yeah, things happened. I’ve known Toni since we were five, Betty. She’s one of my best friends, but I think maybe I ruined that. Remember when we played truth or dare? And I told you I didn’t know if there even was an ex. That’s still true. But things happened, and ever since they did, I’ve been wishing they hadn’t.”_

_“What are we even talking about?” she asked._

_"I don’t know,” I wanted to say._

_But I couldn’t even make myself say that. Fuck, what are words?_

 

* * *

 

A secret rendezvous, with gang members, in a bar, on the Southside. _That's a lot of firsts for a Thursday afternoon_ , Betty thinks as she flips through her closet in search of something to wear for the occasion.

“Do I need to wear anything special?” she had asked in the truck, going back home from school.

He had glanced over at her, eyes lingering on her embroidered collar. There were rhinestone ladybugs on it. “No,” he had said lightly, after a pause that said ‘not that’.

She settles for black skinny jeans and a grey hoodie, and then brushes her hair out. She leaves the elastic around her wrist, in case of emergency, before walking next door to see if Jughead approves.

His door is open, and he’s got his back to her, rummaging around in a suitcase on the floor. Betty pauses there, on the threshold, her heart stuttering a little. He’s wearing a leather jacket she’s seen once or twice before, but this is the first time she’s really gotten a good look at the back of it. The double-headed snake that grins at her jolts loose a half-forgotten question in the back of her head. One she’d meant to examine days ago, but that has somehow slipped her mind with everything else happening.

Without alerting him of her presence, she pads on down the hallway until she arrives at her mom’s bedroom. A brief moment of paranoia makes her check the door frame for trip wires or strands of hair taped to it, and then she gingerly turns the handle.

The shades are shut, the room is cool, and it still smells like it did when she was a young girl; a little old, a little unused, a little abandoned. Alice doesn’t spend much time in here. It’s worse than going in Polly’s room, but she’s on a mission, one that makes her ignore the hairs on her arms that stand on end in protest at this risky intrusion. She checks under the bed first. The drawers are filled with thoroughly uninteresting things - spare pillows and bedding in ziplock vacuum bags, lavender pouches, Christmas curtains, an air mattress, a rolled up yoga mat.

The wardrobe, then. She ignores the clothes rack - there’s no way her mother would be so bold - and moves straight to the boxes, piled in one corner. Hair dryer, crimping iron (she files this away as useful information in case Cheryl decides to yet again change the theme of the prom, perhaps to ‘Nineties Nostalgia’), moth balls, dad’s hand cranked emergency radio... One of the boxes is filled with old photographs from when she and Polly were kids, and she resists the temptation to lose herself in that, putting it firmly aside. The second to last in the pile is very light, with what feels like a single thing sliding around inside of it, and when she opens it, she nearly flings it aside, gasping loudly.

A _gun_. To her surprise, she’s not even that surprised.

_Cripes, mom._ Heart pounding in her ears, she tips the box carefully from one side to the other, examining the weapon more closely. Maybe it’s her dad’s, she thinks, but no, she immediately dismisses this as highly unlikely. It’s definitely mom’s. For Alice, it feels _right_ , somehow.

With this discovery out of the way, her hopes for the last box have been considerably deflated, but this one is heavy, which seems to tip the scales in her favor. Luck, if you would call it that, is on her side, and even though the contents are exactly what she came here to look for, lifting this lid is somehow more shocking than finding a hand weapon. It’s the kind of shock that will hit you even though you know about it beforehand. Like playing a buzz wire game at the fun fair and jumping far too high when you inevitably screw up. She traces the snake with a shaking finger, and can’t help but snort a soft laugh.

The jacket fits well. Almost frighteningly well. Heavy to hold, but easy to wear. The sleeves are creaky and stiff, and Betty feels like a warrior, encased in armor that’s menacing and protective at the same time. When she slips her hands into the pockets, she realizes they’re not empty. She pulls out a cigarette lighter, a stale stick of gum that disintegrates into dust as she bends it experimentally, several faded receipts and a bus ticket. It’s for Toronto, Canada, dated July 1991. It appears unused.

_Who were you, mom? Who_ are _you?_

She puts the boxes back, careful to stack them in the same order as before. Then she heads for Jughead’s room. He’s sitting on the bed, phone in his hands.

“What do you think?” she says to get his attention.

He looks up, and the way his mouth actually falls open a little is worth even the risk of her mom finding out Betty’s been digging around in her dark past.

“Wh– That’s, uh…” His teeth flash at her in a quick grin. “That’s... not bad. Better than the…” he draws a half-circle around his neck, mimicking her ladybug collar.

She twirls for him, giddy like a girl, but once they’re face to face again, his has dropped in sudden horror.

“Okay, no, I take it back,” he says, getting up from the bed, and the sombre note to his voice makes Betty go cold. “That’s… that’s _very_ bad. Where did you get that?”

“It’s… mom’s.”

Jughead blinks at her, seemingly lost for words. “ _What?_ ” he says finally.

“I didn’t know!” she splutters. “I mean, I kind of suspected that she was hiding something. Ever since… ever since _you_ , you know? And then your dad said something about a jacket–”

“Dad?” Jughead looks livid. “When the hell did you and dad find the time to talk about your mom’s secret life as a Serpent?”

“At the station!” she says desperately. “It was just a weird comment he made, and I only remembered today, so I had a look in her closet and here we are!”

“Well you can’t wear it,” he says tersely.

“Why not?” she asks, even though his reaction has already told her there’s probably a very good reason.

“Why…?” He grabs his beanie in frustration, walks to the desk and then back again. “You’re not a Serpent, Betty. You’re _Northside_. And that jacket, it _means_ something. You can’t wear it. You can’t… _dress up_ as a gang member, okay?”

For someone who so adamantly claims he’s nothing like his father, Betty feels Jughead is stepping dangerously close to hypocrisy.

“What about you?” she says, motioning at him, at _his_ jacket. “What are you doing with that on?”

“I am who I am,” he says.

“So, a gang member?” she says, turning his own words against him.

“ _Southside_. And no matter who or what Alice Cooper is, you’re not. You’re so Northside it hurts, Betty.”

It stings in an unexpected kind of way, and she shrugs out of the jacket, cheeks burning.

“Fine,” she mumbles, bunching the jacket up in her arms and stalking off to her room.

A few minutes later, he knocks on her door. Betty locks the bottom drawer of her desk and puts the key in its usual spot before opening. Jughead is leaning against the wall, looking at her warily from underneath that stupid floppy hair of his.

“So… Ready to go?” he asks.

Betty sighs, tightens her ponytail, and nods.

 

* * *

 

According to the notice, the White Wyrm is not open yet, but that doesn’t stop Jughead from pushing the door open and letting her inside with no more hesitation than if they were on their way to grab a burger at Pop’s. The place is dimly lit and mostly empty, save for a sour looking man behind the bar, and a small group of teens at one of the back tables.

“This way,” says Jughead, heading towards them.

The bartender nods silently at him as they pass, but frowns briefly at Betty, trailing at Jughead’s heels. She looks around, trying to take everything in all at once. From the outside it looked menacing enough; a rough board door and a couple of firmly shuttered small windows giving it the impression of a questionable shed. Inside it’s… bordering on cozy. The snake motif is definitely recurring, but otherwise it looks like a normal bar - not that she’s been to many - with the usual band posters, neon signs, a pool table, and even a row of fairy lights, its cheerful colors reflecting in the empty tables.

As they approach the teens, one of them spots Jughead and gets up. He’s remarkably tall and looks like he doesn’t know whether to take a swing at Jughead or give him a hug. Thankfully, it’s the latter.

“Where the hell’ve you been, asshole,” he says, pounding Jughead’s back.

“Good to see you too, Sweet Pea,” Jughead grunts uncomfortably.

_Sweet Pea_. For a brief, flabbergasted moment, Betty entertains the idea that yes, this _is_ the ex, but then she’s almost certain he said _she_. Which means… Her gaze roams the others at the table. There’s Kevin’s Joaquin - she gives him a quick wave - and a third guy who looks curiously at her from behind a tall glass of soda, and... a girl.

“Who’s the Northsider?”

Sweet Pea’s brusque question makes her flinch and snap her eyes back on him.

“Guys, this is Betty,” says Jughead. “Betty, this is Sweet Pea. Joaquin you know already. And that’s Fangs, and Toni.”

_Toni_. Toni is even _worse_ than Betty’s fictional Sweet Pea - a petite beauty with dusty pink kissing the ends of her lush brown hair, still looking effortlessly badass in black denim and leather. She’s casually flipping a coaster and her huge, dark eyes are currently searching Betty’s face.

“Hi,” says Betty, forcing a smile.

Fangs replies with a cheerful ‘hello!’ while Toni not so much nods as lifts her chin a little in acknowledgement.

“What’s she doing here?” Sweet Pea says accusingly.

Betty can feel her eyebrows flying up. This guy seemingly has no chill at all.

“We’re working on dad’s case together,” says Jughead, and the fact that he too thinks of it as a lowkey crime investigation is inordinately pleasing to her.

“She’s Kevin’s friend,” Joaquin adds quietly. “She’s alright.”

“In fact,” Jughead says, glancing at Betty, “she pretty much convinced me to look into it in the first place.”

“Is that so?” says Sweet Pea. Even though he’s standing several feet away, it feels like he’s towering over Betty. “And what reason would a Northsider have for meddling in Serpent business?”

“Sweet Pea,” says Jughead sternly.

“I’m not meddling,” Betty protests. “I’m just trying to help.”

Sweet Pea scoffs, but Jughead grabs him by the shoulder.

“Not now,” he says. “I need your help with something.”

He leads a reluctant Sweet Pea away, leaving Betty alone with the other three. Because she’d look silly doing anything else, she pulls a chair up to the corner of the table and sits down.

“So, Uptown Girl,” says Toni, speaking up for the first time. “I take it you’re Jughead’s foster sister.”

“One of life's weird little twists,” says Betty brightly. She feels an intense need for these teenagers, Jughead’s friends, to like her; she wants to win them over, somehow. “You guys all go to school together?” she asks - a harmless enough question to break the ice.

“Sweet Pea and me,” says Toni. “Most days, as long as it’s open.”

“Fangs and I dropped out,” says Joaquin.

“Hey, I went last week,” Fangs protests.

“Two math classes a month do not a C minus make, Fogarty,” says Toni.

“Wait, what do you mean _open_?” asks Betty, who’s been backtracking the conversation.

“The go-to prank this term is setting fire to trash cans,” says Toni, eyeing Betty calmly. “Last time they managed to get to the one next to the teacher’s room. It was a week before Ms. Flinty could talk them into coming back to work.”

“That’s horrible!” says Betty.

“I’m surprised Mrs. Cooper doesn’t write about _that_ in her paper.” Toni slides a copy of today’s _Register_ across the table.

Betty skims through the front page. It’s entirely devoted to the business with the drive-in, and the Sunnyside lot.

_The buyer remains suspiciously anonymous,_ Betty reads _, but through a source at the Health and Safety Department at Town Hall, the_  Register _learns that certain inquiries about lead contamination have been made by contractors previously in cahoots with one Mr. Lodge. This all but confirms Lodge Industries as the buyer of the Sunnyside plot, adding further fuel to the fire that the_  Register _lit under Mr. Lodge’s swivel chair last week._

_Interestingly enough, said inquiries were made before the alleged contamination was even discovered, our source lets us know. Alleged, you say? Yes! The_  Register _feels this new development begs the question if the contamination was ever real, or simply a devious plan conceived by Lodge Industries to acquire more land at a cheaper price. It would certainly not be the first time Mr. Lodge finds himself in over his head in murky waters. Rest assured that your trusty truth seekers will continue digging, day and night, until our readers have the full picture._

_As for the land itself, it may not look much to the world now. Sunnyside is undoubtedly and deservedly the most disreputable part of our otherwise thriving town, and has ever been home to ruffians, roughnecks and racketeers. Not least in the form of the town’s resident black sheep in snakeskin boots - the Southside Serpents. No doubt this trailer park-cum-melting pot for crime is long overdue an anti-venom power wash, but at the gentrifying hands of Hiram Lodge?_

Betty stops reading there, slowly pushing the newspaper away. How can Alice talk like this about the Southside when that jacket has been on her wardrobe floor all these years?

“I’m.. I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I don’t think that about you. My mom…”

“It’s okay, blondie,” Toni breaks her off. “Jughead told me she’s an acquired taste.”

Betty does her best to smile at that, but internally she’s screaming. What else has Jughead been telling Toni? She knows being jealous is completely irrational - she _knows_ \- but she can’t help but feel a pang of it when she looks at Toni, thinking of all the things she must know about Jughead, all the times they’ve talked, all the things they’ve probably seen and done together, that she _hasn’t_. Coming here was a terrible idea, she thinks.

Determined to not let this little hiccup get the better of her, she frantically tries to think of something else to talk about. Normally she’s well-versed in the art of small talk, but here she’s so out of her depth that she can barely even see she shore. All her usual go-to topics seem to elude her, and the only one that comes to mind is the dance next week.

“So, you guys do prom?” she blurts out.

Three pairs of eyes stare at her in mute response.

“Kevin asked me to go to yours, actually,” says Joaquin, breaking the silence.

“That’s great!” Betty says excitedly, grasping at this unexpected buoy.

“Yeah, I wasn’t allowed though.”

“What, why?”

“Oh my god,” says Toni, rolling her eyes.

Just then, Jughead and Sweet Pea return, and Jughead sits down next to Betty, sliding her a soda. She gulps half of it down immediately, more than happy to let the Southsiders do the talking from here on out.

“Okay guys, here’s the deal,” says Sweet Pea grimly. “You know all the stuff Tall Boy’s been spreading about how FP started taking risks, about how he did the decent thing and took the fall for us once it started going to shit? Well it seems to me that Jughead has evidence that points in another direction. A _darker_ direction. No true Serpent ever dealt with Ghoulies, and if it’s Tall Boy’s word against Jug’s, I know for sure who I trust more.”

There is a general murmur of a approval around the table.

“Dad was set up,” says Jughead. “That much is clear. Maybe by the Ghoulies,” he glances at Betty, “but maybe by someone else. Someone much more powerful. Someone who’s got enough money to buy half of Sunnyside. Joaquin, is El Dinero still around?”

Joaquin shakes his head. “I don’t know man. I’ve been keeping a low profile these past couple of weeks.”

“You’re literally sleeping with the Sheriff’s son,” Toni protests. “You went to his house in your Serpent jacket, like, yesterday.”

“The Sheriff wasn’t at home,” Joaquin shrugs. “And Kev likes it when I wear the jacket.”

“Woah,” says Betty throwing her hands up.

“TMI, dude,” says Toni, reaching over to slap Joaquin lightly over the head.

“He’s still around,” says Fangs then. “That El Dinero. If we’re still talking about him?”

Jughead leans forward. “What’ve you got?”

“I saw him a couple of days ago, over by one-oh-five.”

“That's the lot number,” says Toni, for Betty's benefit.

“One-oh-five’s not far from Tall Boy’s trailer,” says Sweet Pea, bunching his hands into fists angrily.

“Alright, I'm going to need you guys to do some detective work,” says Jughead. “Find out what he's doing here, who he's doing business with now.”

“Pictures would be helpful,” Betty chips in.

“True,” Jughead nods. “Toni?”

“I got you covered, Juggie,” she says, patting her bag.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, looking around at each of his Southside friends. Then he slaps his hand down on the table and leans back in his chair. “Right, Sweet Pea, you mentioned your laptop? Anyone else need anything?”

Betty looks on as Sweet Pea pulls a battered computer from his bag while Fangs produces three mobile phones, lining them up on the table. Jughead lifts the laptop up, inspecting it with a sigh.

“Can you please just… I don’t know, _not_ throw it around so much?” he says wearily before sliding into his bag. Then he gathers up the phones. “Jailbreaks?” he asks Fangs, who nods.

“I've got a PS4 that needs chipping,” says Joaquin. “When you've got the time.”

The confusion on Betty's face must be plain to see, because Toni leans over to explain.

“Jughead's our resident IT support,” she says. “Only no longer resident, of course.”

“It's temporary,” says Jughead, and Betty’s heart sinks a little.

“No need to make excuses, Jug, I can see the appeal,” Toni says, but her eyes rest on Betty, not him, heavy with a weird mix of emotions.

“Uh-oh, here comes trouble,” says Joaquin then, nodding at something behind Betty.

Betty and Jughead turn around to follow his gaze. Three guys are walking towards their table, looking like they mean Business. Sweet Pea gets to his feet so quickly that his chair screeches in protest. He’s followed by Jughead and Fangs, while Joaquin and Toni exchange tried looks.

“What’s going on?” asks Betty.

Toni doesn’t reply, but gets to her feet to meet the trio.

“Tyson,” she says to what appears to be the leader, reaching up to grab at his shoulders. “ _Don’t_.”

“Get off, Toni,” says Tyson, pushing her aside before moving for Jughead.

In a somewhat alarming display of testosterone-fueled silliness, Tyson and his sidekicks size themselves up against Jughead, Sweet Pea and Fangs. All six of them are wearing Serpent jackets, Betty notes through her mounting distress, but the prospect of an actual bar fight seems to hang in the air all the same.

“What the hell are you doing here,” Tyson says to Jughead. He spits on the floor. “And what the hell are you doing, wearing _that_ ,” he continues, clearly meaning the jacket.

“Jughead’s a Serpent, same as you,” says Sweet Pea hotly, making a move towards Tyson.

Jughead flings an arm out, holding him back, then addresses Tyson in a calm voice. “I’ve got no beef with you. We’re just doing our thing here, you stick to doing yours.”

Tyson scoffs. “Big words from someone who was doing my _cousin_ two months ago.”

“Christ,” Jughead groans.

“That’s enough, Ty,” says Toni sharply.

“He dumped you,” snarls Tyson. “Like he dumped _all_ of us. And now he’s bringing his Northside skank to the Wyrm and you’re telling _me_ it’s enough?”

“Excuse me?” says Betty, getting to her feet. She may be equal parts fear-induced adrenaline and confusion right now, but she’s pretty sure that insult was meant for her.

“What do you want, leech?” asks Tyson, taking a step towards Betty.

Smoothly, Jughead puts himself between her and Tyson while Sweet Pea cracks his knuckles.

“Hey!” It’s the bartender, calling from behind the bar. “You know the rules, boys. Take your petty drama outside.”

“That won’t be necessary,” says Toni, glaring hard at Tyson. Then she gets her phone out, scrolls through her contacts and selects a number. She holds the phone out to him, and his eyes widen slightly.

“My cousin here was just leaving,” she continues, her thumb hovering threateningly over the call button. “And while he’s at it, he’ll be leaving his violent tendencies and outdated values at the door. Do you hear me, Ty? Don’t you ever use me as an excuse for starting shit again. _Ever_.”

Tyson looks dangerously close to punching someone, but then he snorts and backs away. “Come on,” he says to his friends. “They’re not worth it.”

As they walk out of the bar, the tension in the air slowly diffuses, and Betty can feel herself gradually relaxing along with it. Toni doesn’t seem terribly bothered, putting her phone away with a tired sigh.

“You alright, Toni?” says Jughead, putting an hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, please,” she says, shrugging him off and glancing at Betty.

Jughead’s friends settle around the table, going back to their drinks as if run-ins like these are business as usual. Betty, for her part, feels adrift yet again. She looks down at her hands, willing herself to not curl them into fists. Beyond any doubt, Toni is the ex. Beyond any doubt, it was serious, and recent. She’s not sure exactly what she’s fretting about. What she and Jughead have is nothing, really. Some kissing and light petting, and a crush on her part, and what else? Nothing else, she tells herself. They’ve committed to nothing. _He’s_ committed to nothing.

At the table, the conversation has picked up again, so she takes a deep breath and raises her chin, tries her smile on. It still fits, if barely.

“Before I forget,” Sweet Pea is saying as he pushes a 7-Eleven bag across the table.

Jughead glances inside. “Thanks, man,” he says. “I’ll have them back by tomorrow.”

“You can keep ‘em for all I care. Also….” Sweet Pea digs around in his pocket and produces a set of keys.

The grin that spreads on Jughead’s face is bordering on wolfish. “Hey, Betty,” he says, turning towards her. “Do me a favor and drive the truck home.”

When they step outside, it’s still light, making Betty blink owlishly. The time is just past five thirty so it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but somehow it feels entirely inappropriate. The White Wyrm is a place to stumble out of into a rainy night, not into a sun-drenched parking lot.

 “These are for dad’s bike,” says Jughead, tossing the keys up in the air and catching them nimbly with one hand. “A truck is good but this,” he jangles them happily, “is _freedom_.”

“What’s in there?” Betty asks, nodding at the plastic bag that Sweet Pea gave him.

“A shirt and tie,” he says, throwing the keys up again. “I’ve got an interview at the Bijou tonight.”

Objectively, this is happy news, but for Betty it’s another subtle blow to the gut. “Oh! You didn’t tell me.”

“Gotta make a living somehow,” he shrugs.

“Right, because staying with us is…”

Jughead stops dead in his tracks. “What, are you denying me pocket money now?”

“... _Temporary_ , was what I was going to say.”

“Ah.” He pulls a face. “Yeah… Sorry about that.”

“It’s true,” she points out.

“It is,” he says. “But it’s not like I’m counting down the days.”

She raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Not anymore,” he says, slipping his hand in between her arm and waist.

As always, the feeling of his lips on hers makes her heart swell. She could spend all day kissing him and never get bored, she thinks. Still, she can’t ignore the uneasy tingle in her belly when she thinks about Jughead’s friends and how out of place and ignorant she must have looked to them. _Uptown Girl_ , she thinks, wincing involuntarily.

“You okay?” Jughead asks, pulling away.

“I’m fine,” she says automatically.

Then her phone bleeps, and she digs it out of her pocket. It’s from Veronica.

 

5.36pm  
I miss you B

 

5.36pm  
Bury the hatchet once and for all?

 

5.36pm  
I’m making mimosas and I’ve got Belgian chocolates that need eating…

 

Betty almost shudders with relief. There’s nothing she can think of that would make her feel better right now than making up with Ronnie over a box of bon-bons.

“You know how I’m driving the truck home,” she says to Jughead. “Can I borrow it for a few hours?”

 

* * *

 

From the moment Betty steps inside the apartment at the Pembrooke, it’s clear that Veronica has pulled out all the stops. There’s soft music playing on the stereo, and the drinks and chocolates are laid out on the living room table alongside nail polish bottles and manicure tools beyond count.

“It’s been ages since we had a proper girls’ night in,” says Ronnie excitedly, leading the way.

This is how Veronica deals with conflict, Betty reflects. They never really try to talk about their disagreements, but sulk in separate corners until one of them is prepared to reach out. And when Ronnie reaches out, it’s usually with a grand gesture. Right now, she doesn't mind this setup at all.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been craving something like this,” says Betty, slumping down on the sofa and popping a chocolate in her mouth.

Veronica’s smile fades a little then. “About that. I… I noticed you weren’t at cheer practice. Again. So I asked Kevin, and…” She grabs Betty’s hand and squeezes it tightly. “Oh, B, I wish you’d _said_ something. I mean, I should have seen how stressed you’ve been, but I’ve been so caught up in the whole election business, and the second debate and–”

Betty clasps her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, that was _today_ , wasn’t it?”

“It was fine, don’t worry,” Veronica assures her. “ _I_ should be the one worrying about _you_. And as for the debacle with the Vixens and _The_ _Blue and Gold_ , I’ll have a word with Weatherbee. _Tomorrow_. God knows daddy has done him enough favors in the past.”

“No, don’t,” says Betty hurriedly. “I’m actually enjoying having a bit less to do. Besides, wouldn’t that be, I don’t know, if not straight up coercion then at least some very shady wheel-greasing?”

“Ugh, you’re right,” says Veronica, making an appalled face. “Speaking of which… I’ve been doing some thinking.”

“About?”

Veronica sighs. “About daddy. And the little investigation you and Jughead have been conducting. And today’s paper.”

Betty suddenly feels cold all over. “I’m sorry about that,” she says, knowing full well that she handed Alice the pieces of the puzzle.

But Ronnie waves her away. “You’re not your mom, Betty. And as unpleasant as the mood around the kitchen table was this morning, the article made me think. My father has a certain… reputation in Riverdale, and I’ll be the first to admit that not all of the rumors surrounding him are unfounded. He’s done unsavory things in the past. There’s no denying that.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m willing to keep an open mind.”

“Thank you,” Betty breathes. “And sorry. About being, you know, bitchy about it.”

Veronica raises her champagne glass at her in a salute. “Let bygones be bygones, and let Bleu Pastel by Chanel brighten your day.” She puts the glass down, reaches for a silvery light blue nail polish bottle and smiles. “Not to mention your nails.”

Ronnie prepares a bowl of hot water and pours a dash of scented oil in it before letting Betty soak her fingers. Then she massages her hands and files her nails before expertly coating them with varnish.

“So…” says Veronica lightly as they wait for it to dry. “How are things progressing with Gerard Way Junior?”

“Apart from conspiring to bring about the downfall of your dad?” says Betty with a wry smile. Then she sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

Veronica sits back in the sofa, drink in hand and a concerned look on her face. “Tell me everything,” she says, and so Betty does.

Nearly half an hour later, she finally falls silent again. It should have been cathartic, but it seems that talking about it doesn’t help. Her nails are long dried, the mimosas are drained, and Veronica has been given a thorough debriefing of the situation, but she only feels more confused about her feelings.

“Well, you’ve only just met,” says Veronica after a moment’s pause. “Heaven knows I don’t waste time around boys, but you have to do what feels right, B.”

Betty runs a finger over one of her perfectly smooth nails. “It’s like we’ve been in this bubble, you know. Or maybe I have. And I’m only just now realizing how _different_ we really are…”

“And we’re not?” Veronica asks with a little smile.

“What do you mean?” Betty frowns. “Who?”

“You and I! We’re not exactly peas in a pod, and we still manage to get along, right? Besides, _are_ you really all that different?” She shuffles eagerly on the sofa. “You’re both bookish, you’re both smart, and he seems to spend all his free time writing… Another aspiring journalist, perhaps?”

Betty snorts a laugh. “Actually, he used to run the school paper at Southside High.”

“There you go!” Veronica says, slapping her shoulder lightly. Then she hesitates, crossing her legs and flipping her foot thoughtfully. “But… This _Toni_ …”

“I know,” Betty winces.

“You don’t know the full story, but there _is_ a risk he’s looking for a rebound.”

“I _know_.”

“You could always ask him,” Ronnie says. “I mean, it’s not something I would personally do in a million years, but… _You_ could.”

“ _Mija_?”

They both spin around in the sofa to find Hiram Lodge in the doorway, a stern look on his face.

“Daddy,” Veronica says, her voice unnaturally high. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“No, I can see that,” he says, eyes flickering to Betty.

“Betty was just leaving,” says Veronica, taking Betty’s hand and practically pulling her up off the sofa. Quickly, she leans in to whisper in Betty’s ear. “Daddy does _not_ keep an open mind.”

Betty smiles nervously as they hurry past Mr. Lodge and out into the hallway. And there, her heart skips at _least_ three beats as she and Veronica brush past another man, a shadow in a suit, waiting a few steps behind Hiram. _Act natural_ , she thinks, keeping her head down. Once they round a corner, she grabs Ronnie’s arms, halting her abruptly.

“That was him!” she says in a hurried whisper.

“What?”

“The guy Joaquin recognized at the party. El Dinero!”

With a confused look at Betty, Veronica turns around and quietly pads back to peek around the corner.

“I didn’t even notice him standing there!” she says in a hushed voice when she comes back. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” says Betty firmly.

Veronica seems to waver for a brief second. Then she nods. “Alright. I’ll try to find out who he is.”

Betty pulls her into a tight hug. “Thank you,” she says. “For everything.”

 

* * *

 

When Betty pulls up outside the house, Jughead is crouched down in front of an old motorcycle on the driveway. The motion sensor light on the garage is beaming down on him and she can see he’s fiddling with something on the bike. He’s wearing the shirt Sweet Pea brought him, and he stands up and flashes her a smile as she gets out of the truck.

“Thanks,” she says, handing him the keys.

“No, thank you for getting it back here,” says Jughead.

He glances up at the house, then grabs her by the wrist and pulls her away from the light. That shirt looks remarkably good on him, and even though it’s the exact opposite of what she intended to do, she can’t help but indulge for a few moments when he bends down to kiss her. It’s an eager, heady kiss, filled with unspoken promise that she’s loath to throw away, but that uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach still lingers.

“Jughead…” she says, putting her hands on his chest.

“Mm,” he hums, stealing another kiss.

“No, listen.” Betty leans away, and he frowns, taking a step back.

“What?”

“I’m just…” She presses her lips together, trying to figure out how to start, how to not make everything horribly complicated. Before she speaks again, she makes herself look him in the eyes. “I’m just wondering, you know, what’s going on.”

In an instant, he becomes closed, drawing back from her and somehow into himself. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“What I mean is that… I barely know you, Jughead.” She thinks about how his friends call him _Jug_ , _Juggie_ , _Jugs_ , and how she doesn’t feel she can. He nods, but his eyes are unreadable. The distance between them seems to have grown into a gaping abyss, and Betty curses herself silently.

“I know that I _like_ you, though,” she says quickly. “And I like what we’ve been _doing_ …”

_God, why is this so difficult?_ she thinks. _I like_ kissing _you is what I mean_ , she wants to scream. _I want to do_ more _than just kiss you. Fuck, what are words?_

“So what’s the problem?” asks Jughead.

“I don’t know what’s going on!” she says again, uselessly. Then, giving up on her own tangled emotions, she abandons that route and takes a leaf out of Ronnie’s book. “I mean, this thing with Toni seems pretty recent, and I don’t want to be some rebound…”

He nods again, slowly. “Okay,” he says.

It sounds not okay at all. It sounds _final_ , somehow, and she dips her chin, confused. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and turns back to his bike. He pulls his shirt off, folding it neatly and putting it aside before sitting down on the ground. Then he goes back to picking at something near the engine.

_Okay. Yeah._ He says it as if none of what they’ve done meant _anything_ , and she crosses her arms, prepared to _drag_ some answers out of him if needs be. “No, what do you mean, ‘okay’?” she asks.

“It’s a simple enough word,” he says in a short voice without turning around.

Betty feels like she’s trapped in some Kafka-esque parallel universe where nothing makes sense and everything she says makes things worse. “What are we even talking about here?” she says.

He sighs, then picks up a crescent wrench and starts adjusting it. “You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be, Betty.”

The frustration is enough to make her want to stomp her foot like a little girl. She watches him fumble with the tool for a few seconds, then snaps around and walks into the garage. Her dad’s wrench set hangs in its usual place, untouched for almost two years, and she snatches it off the hook and goes back outside.

“You want a half inch for that,” she says, tossing the set down next to him. Then her eyes fall on the folded-up shirt and she suddenly remembers why he was wearing it in the first place. She breathes in deeply, shaking her irritation off as best as she can. “How’d the interview go?” she asks.

Jughead glances up at her and wipes his hand on his tank top before picking up the wrenches. “Yeah, I got it. Starting tomorrow.”

It makes her happy, which in turn makes her furious. She wants to hug him, or slap him, or maybe both. “Well... congratulations,” she says lamely.

He grunts something inaudible in reply, but by now she’s somehow close to tears, so she leaves him there in the driveway, mentally kicking herself, wishing she’d just kept kissing him.


	14. Blossoms and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks as always to [nimmieamee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimmieamee/pseuds/nimmieamee) and [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily), who both have _excellent_ recent works up and trust me, you're doing yourself a disservice if you're not already reading them.

****_“How are you getting on?” Latetia asked._

_I shrugged in response and Latetia sighed, looking down at her papers._

_“How’s school?” she asked._

_She asked this every time, and although she was probably just following a checklist, it was strangely reassuring to hear it. I shrugged again. It felt like a solid option._

_“The food’s good,” I added, to make it seem like I was at least trying._

_“Always something,” said Latetia, making a note on a form. “And the family? How is that working out?”_

_That morning, Betty Cooper had kissed me in the kitchen. The sun had made her hair glow so brightly I had to close my eyes. Her nose had felt a little cold against my cheek but her lips had been so warm._

_“Fine,” I said, suppressing another shrug._

_Latetia made another note. Then she pushed a newspaper in front of me and pointed at a small notice._ Projectionist wanted for the Bijou Theatre _, it said._

_“Since the Twilight closed,” she said. “I thought you might be interested.”_

_“Thanks,” I said, and got my phone out to take a picture of the ad._

_“Last time we spoke you mentioned your mother,” said Latetia, pen poised and ready. “Why don’t you tell me more about her.”_

_Because you’re not even a real therapist, I thought. You just squeeze fifteen minutes of smalltalk in and call it treatment. Not that I wanted treatment either._

_“You know anything you say is strictly confidential,” she said, and maybe her eyes looked a little softer._

_“I know.”_

_I didn’t tell her everything. I barely told her anything, but I always left with a raw kind of relief in my chest, so maybe that counts for something._

 

* * *

 

Betty is already in bed with a book, trying to keep herself from fretting, apparently by reading the same sentence over and over again, when the text from Veronica arrives.

 

10.43pm  
Get ready for the hot goss Miss Marple

 

10.43pm  
Just overheard dad talking to Dr Dineros or whatever his nickname on the Southside is

 

10.43pm  
In daddy’s study he goes by Andre

 

The last text is like an electric shock, making Betty get to her feet without even consciously deciding to. Then she remains standing there with her phone in her hand for a few seconds. Does she want to knock on Jughead’s window right now? The risk of him being just as standoffish as an hour ago is very real, and the mere thought makes her throat tighten uncomfortably. On the other hand, she’s still craving interaction, a do-over of their awkward conversation. Maybe, just maybe he’s there on the other side of that wall, wondering how to patch things up between them.

In the end, the fact that she has new information relating to FP’s case is the dealbreaker. It’s not like she can keep this from him and give up on the whole thing. And so she slips a hoodie over her pyjama top, climbs outside and shuffles along the ledge, trying not to look down. It’s been a few years since she last took the window route and besides, Polly was always the better climber. The rough slates scrape against her knees, and she regrets not changing into jeans but presses on until she can tap gently on Jughead’s window. A moment later he pulls the curtain aside and slides it open.

“Hey,” he says, looking apprehensive.

“Can I come inside?” she asks.

“To my knowledge it still says Cooper on the front door and not Jones,” he says, stepping back to give her room.

That stings, so she remains on the ledge, wondering if she should just give him the name and leave again. Then his eyes soften with something like guilt.

“Come on,” he says. “You'll freeze your butt off in those shorts.”

She slips inside and he motions at her to sit on the bed. It’s made, she notes. Sweet Pea’s laptop, easily recognizable as it’s literally held together with duct tape, is lying open on the covers with some Netflix series paused on the screen. Jughead pushes the computer aside and sinks down next to her.

“Andre,” says Betty.

He dips his chin. “No… Jughead,” he says slowly.

“No, look,” she says, getting her phone out of her pocket to show him the messages from Veronica.

“Andre,” he says, like he’s tasting the name. “This is great, Betty.”

She leans forward expectantly. “What, do you know him?”

“No, but we can stop calling him El Dinero, which is honestly a huge relief.” Then he looks seriously at her. “Thank you for this. I’ll let Sweet Pea know.”

“Did you manage to fix that for him?” she asks, poking at the laptop.

Jughead glances at it. “Yeah… He was missing drivers for his graphics card and VLC wouldn’t play a file, which to him is the equivalent of ‘this piece of crap is broken, dead, damaged beyond repair, ready to be stripped for parts’.”

Betty smiles and he does too, but they fall silent. Hesitation hangs in the air between them, the quiet seconds piling on top of each other uncomfortably. She’s said everything she came here to say, but she doesn’t want to leave. Not yet. While she tries to think of something else to talk about, Jughead picks at his jeans where they’re ripped over the knee. Then Betty's eyes flit to the computer again.

“What are you watching?” she asks, despite just having looked directly at the paused stream.

He looks up and shrugs. “Nothing. _Twin Peaks_ , but I just put that on in the background while I was weeding out some useless Chrome extensions.”

“New or old _Twin Peaks_?”

He frowns at her. “Old, obviously.”

“Obviously,” she agrees, nodding sagely. “Truth be told, I haven’t seen either, I just know there’s a new one and an old one.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jughead looks downright offended. “That is like… How do you even keep living your life without having the first one and a half seasons of _Twin Peaks_ in it? Have you not noticed the immense blank in your mental pop cultural atlas?”

“No, I just fill it up with you know, _girl stuff_ instead,” she teases.

“There’s…” he gestures at the screen, fumbling for words, “... _romance_ in there. And love triangles, and strong female characters. Like, Nadine, she’s so strong. And I don’t even mean that in a Joss Whedon kind of way, I mean literally the strongest. She’s got an eye patch, she’s a wrestler, but like tiny, and she’s got this obsession with drape runners, and–”

“Okay, okay,” says Betty with a little laugh. “You’ve convinced me. Drape runners _and_ eye patches? It sounds like every girl’s dream.” Then she prods the laptop again. “So are you going to put that back on?”

He stares at her, then gives a start like he’s shaking himself out of a daze. Quickly, he grabs the computer and scoots back on the bed, leaving plenty of room for her to join him.

“We’ll have to start from the beginning,” he says, as she settles next to him at a safe distance.

“I don’t mind. I’ll get the gist of it, I’m sure.”

“No, really,” he says, sliding the progress bar all the way back. “We _have_ to start from the beginning.”

_Do we really?_ she thinks, not meaning the pilot of _Twin Peaks_ at all. At least it doesn’t feel weird anymore, sitting there watching Netflix with him on Sweet Pea’s bashed-up laptop. After a while Jughead slides down a little and adjusts his pillow, leaving his shoulder resting lightly against her arm. For a few moments she wonders if it means anything, but then the murder of Laura Palmer and the quirky FBI agent investigating it actually grabs her, and she forgets to worry.

They end up watching another two episodes, and Jughead falls asleep halfway through the second one. When it’s finished, she carefully shuts the computer and puts it on the floor. The blanket that’s usually thrown over the foot end of the bed is lying in a chair, and she manages to pull it over Jughead without waking him up.

It’s almost two in the morning by the time she crawls back along the ledge and into her room. Once in her own bed, she realizes she could have just stayed. Pretended to go asleep until she did it for real. She turns on her side, staring into the darkness. The fretting is more of a subtle gnawing now, but it’s still there, real enough to keep her awake for a good while longer before she falls asleep from sheer exhaustion.

 

* * *

 

The next day there’s whispers of a party in Greendale. Reggie knows someone who knows someone whose parents are out of town. Apparently there's a pool involved, Veronica tells Betty, Archie and Jughead at lunch.

“It's still freezing out at night,” Betty says skeptically.

“A heated pool,” says Veronica, wagging her eyebrows.

“We’re going,” says Archie firmly. “There hasn't been a good party since that time Dilton’s basement got wrecked and we all had to chip in to pay for the damage.”

“That was _not_ a good party, Archie,” says Betty.

“What? It was great! Okay, but this Greendale thing… Jughead, you're coming, right?”

Jughead side-eyes him and snorts. “Give me one good reason.”

“I'll give you fifteen, twenty good reasons. Something like that, depending on how many turn up.”

Jughead frowns. “Elaborate, please.”

“Have you _seen_ the Greendale girls?" he says, then glances at Betty and Veronica. "Not that there's anything wrong with Riverdale girls, of course."

Veronica rolls her eyes at that. "Smoother than my mulberry silk sheets, Archiekins."

Jughead holds three fingers up and starts counting them off. “First of all, I don't care. Secondly, it’s in _Greendale_. Thirdly I _don't care_ and besides, I'm working.”

“Damn,” says Archie. “Maybe you could come after?

“Until half past two in the morning.”

“It might still be going.”

“Andrews…”

“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” says Archie. “What about you Betty?”

“Doesn’t Greendale have enough loons already?”

They turn as one towards Cheryl, who has evidently been lingering nearby for some time and is now standing at the end of their table.

“The town proudly boasting the highest number of clinically insane per capita in the state,” she recites. “You don’t need to add to that statistic, do you?” she goes on, smiling at Betty and basking in the glowering stares from the rest of them. “And anyway, what _ever_ would Mama Cooper say? With your eight o’clock curfew you’d barely have time to get changed before it’s practically time for bed!”

“It’s _ten_ ,” says Betty, feeling color rise in her cheeks. “And don’t worry, Cheryl. I’ve got other, more exciting plans.”

“You do?” Archie asks, and for a split second she hates him.

“Sleepover with Kevin,” she blurts out.

Cheryl blinks. “Milk and cookies and Settlers of Catan? That certainly is _one_ definition of exciting. Maybe it’s for the best, though. Less chance of a make-up related hissy fit.”

“That’s enough, Cheryl,” says Betty in a low voice, curling her fists under the table, refusing to take the bait.

Veronica, however, bites. “I assume _you’ll_ be in the library, working on your speech for next week’s debate,” she snaps at Cheryl. “If the frankly underwhelming reactions to your closing arguments yesterday are anything to go by, you’ll need it.”

At that, Cheryl narrows her eyes. “At least I sleep soundly at night knowing I run a fair campaign without the school paper as my personal advertising space,” she says, flashing a glare at Betty.

By now, people from tables nearby are starting to look on with interest. Across from Betty, Jughead grabs a handful potato chips from Archie’s tray and starts stuffing them in his mouth while his eyes dart from Cheryl to Veronica, and then to Betty.

“I didn’t–” says Betty.

“Stop wasting precious air and ink defending Little Miss New Money,” Cheryl cuts her off. “I never thought I’d say this, but you should try listening to your mother. At least Alice isn’t so loopy she doesn’t know how to put that godawful gossip rag to good use once in a blue moon. At least _she_ can see that the Lodges are buying their way into every nook and cranny of our fine town. Hopefully it’s only a matter of time before the rest of you birdbrained buffoons catch on.”

“That’s _enough!_ ” says Betty sharply.

Cheryl is leaning on the table now, her face easily within reach. For a split second, Betty feels like unfurling her fingers and digging them into her eyes, so she clenches her fists even tighter, arms trembling in her lap. Something in Cheryl’s face wavers when she looks at Betty, but the next instant they’re both distracted by Veronica getting to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but are you suggesting that I’m trying to _bribe_ my way to the school presidency?”

“Straight from the horse’s mouth!” Cheryl exclaims, standing back to motion triumphantly at Veronica, while looking eagerly to the others as if expecting support. Receiving nothing but confused glares, she tosses her hair back with a haughty sniff. “You’ll see,” she says, and there’s something almost maniacal about her voice. “Oh, you’ll see.” Then she turns on her heel and stalks off to join a group of River Vixens at another table.

Betty exhales slowly, then hurriedly sneaks her napkin into her lap, moving it between her hands, pressing it against one palm and then the other.

“What the hell was that all about?” says Jughead to Betty after a few seconds of collective stunned silence.

“Yeah, what did I miss?” comes a voice before she can answer. It's Kevin, sliding in to the seat next to Betty with such force that he bumps into her tray, knocking her empty juice carton over. “Ronnie, after your K-O yesterday I can’t believe I missed an off the record Lodge-Blossom bitch-off. What’d Cheryl say?”

“Just some vapid verbal warfare,” says Veronica lightly, sitting back down again. “Desperate times at Thornhill, one must assume.”

“I’m sorry, Ronnie,” Betty says, but Veronica waves it off with a ‘pshh’.

“Kev, dude,” says Archie, slapping his hand down on the table to get his attention. “Why are you scheduling geeky gaming nights with Betty when the biggest party since Valentine’s at Dilton’s is happening in Greendale?”

Kevin turns to Betty with a stiff smile on his lips. “Indeed, why?”

 

* * *

 

“I panicked, okay?” she explains on the way to French class. “She was teasing me about my curfew. And…other things.” She slides her palm across the folder she’s clutching, assessing the damage. It feels like medium-bad.

“And you remedied this by saying we were having a gaming night?” Kevin asks mildly.

“I believe the term I used was sleepover.”

“Oh, well I guess that makes all the difference. But why aren’t you going to the party?” He whirls on her, suddenly blocking her path. “Wait, don’t tell me. Date night with Jughead?”

Betty screws her face up and shoulders past him, deciding to answer the easy question first. “As much as I hate to admit it, Cheryl’s right. Mom wouldn’t let me go. Not in a million years. And Jughead is…” she hesitates, “working.”

With a few hurried steps Kevin is at her side again, cocking his head suspiciously. “Right, what’s he done?”

She sighs. “Nothing.”

“Okay, now that _is_ a problem.” Then he puts his hand on her arm and holds her back, slowing their steps while still searching her face. “What’s going on, Betty?”

So she tells him about last night, about the way he closed up, grew cold, refused to answer questions about Toni... But also about their _Twin Peaks_ marathon just hours later.

“I’m confused, Kev,” she says miserably. “What does he want? Does he even like me?”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Are you seriously asking? Two nights ago you were having an epic makeout sesh! Have _fun_ with it, Betty. Go with the flow, don’t overthink it. Because to me it sounds like he’s just being a guy, you know?” He purses his lips as if he’s just thought of something. “Also it sounds to me like you could do with going to that party. Have a good time. Take your mind off things.”

_Off Cheryl_ , she thinks. “I already told you, mom won’t let me.”

“ _Mom_ won’t need to know,” says Kevin. “Tell her you _are_ having a sleepover with me. I have a plan.”

As it turns out, Sheriff Keller is working the night shift, and with the house to himself, Kevin had been considering inviting Joaquin over. But ever since a minor incident in Fox Forest when Kevin snuck out during one such late shift, the Sheriff has had a habit of checking in on him over the course of the night if possible.

“But if he thinks _you’re_ staying over, he won’t bother,” says Kevin. “And if Alice thinks you’re at my place…”

“...I can go to the party with Ronnie and Archie,” says Betty. It’s a fantastic idea. Not foolproof, but safe enough for her to take her chances. Then she frowns. “Where am I actually sleeping though?”

“Get a ride back to mine and let yourself in.” He elbows her in the side playfully. “It’s not like Joaquin will be needing the guest bed.”

 

* * *

 

The second to last period, P.E., is canceled that day. When they turn up to get changed Ms. Carter is standing outside the locker rooms to give them the news.

“Coach Clayton had a flat tire on his way back from a conference in Centreville,” she says, raising her voice over the confused mutters from the juniors. “He sends his apologies, reminding you all that it’s a fine day for outdoor activities. Like taking a walk.” Ms. Carter raises her eyebrows pointedly, then shoos them down the hallway again.

Archie heads off to the music room and Veronica declares loudly that her Philipp Plein ankle boots were definitely _not_ made for walking, but Betty finds herself steering her steps towards the door leading out to the football field. It _is_ a fine day and clearing her head with a walk isn’t such a bad idea. The light outside is so bright it makes her stop for a second on the threshold, closing her eyes and feeling the sun hot on her skin. She takes a deep breath and smells freshly cut grass. It’s more like early summer than spring, she thinks, and steps outside. As the door is about to swing shut behind her she can hear the thud of someone catching it on their hand, and she glances over her shoulder.

“Sorry, I didn’t see–” she begins, then trails off, turning around completely.

“Where are you going?” Jughead asks, holding the door open.

“For a walk,” she says, shrugging her bag up on her shoulder.

He squints at the sun as though its mere presence is insulting to him. “I don’t think she’ll be taking attendance,” he says.

“What?”

“Weatherbee’s assistant. That whole telling us to take a walk thing was probably more like guidelines.”

“I know,” says Betty, taking a couple of steps backwards to show him that she absolutely intends to take a walk. “Want to come?”

His shoulders sink in a sigh, but when she turns around and heads for the copse of trees at the edge of the field he follows her all the same, falling into step with her and shoving his hands in his pockets.

Under the trees the air is still a little chilly, and the odd rays of sunshine piercing the sheer green of the canopy overhead sweep across Betty’s hair in brief, warm caresses. It smells of new life and soil here, and if it weren’t for Jughead walking glumly by her side Betty would probably be tempted to join the cacophony of birds in welcoming summer with a song. They follow the short jogging trail around the thicket, soon circling back to where the football field becomes visible through the trees.

“What was Cheryl talking about earlier?” Jughead asks then.

Betty almost freezes in her step there at the edge of the field, but manages to mask it with a shrug. “Just the usual back and forth she has with Ronnie. Only ten times worse now that they're both running for president.”

“I didn't mean _that_ ,” he says gently.

They've reached the back of the football stands now, and Jughead, who has apparently decided that a six minute walk is more than enough, plops down on the grass with his back against the sun and the bleachers. Betty remains standing with her arms crossed, wondering where to start.

“You know Jason Blossom?” she asks eventually.

“Yeah, of course,” says Jughead.

_Of course._ Everyone knows Jason Blossom. Riverdale’s former golden boy, the pride and joy of Thornhill right up until…

“Cheryl kind of blames his death on Polly, my sister. And by extension, my whole family.”

“What? Why?”

She hesitates, then launches into it. “When he died, Polly was pregnant with his babies.”

Jughead stares at her. “Babies? Babies plural?”

“The famous Blossom twin gene,” says Betty with a strained smile.

“But what… I mean, that’s nothing to do with you, right? Jason died in an accident, everyone knows that.” He gives his head a quick, confused shake. “Okay, I have _so_ many questions.”

Betty looks pleadingly at him, hoping against hope that he won’t actually ask them. “It’s a long story,” she says.

Jughead digs his phone out and glances at it. “We’ve got forty-two minutes,” he informs her.

Thinking about it all makes her insides squirm uncomfortably. She’s been doing her best to push any thoughts of it aside, and ever since Polly moved for good it honestly hasn’t been that hard. Her mom, after all, likes to pretend like it never happened and it’s only on days like these, when Cheryl feels like taking a thinly veiled swing, that she’s thrown back to the summer of two years ago.

Betty drops her bag on the grass and eases herself down next to Jughead. “A lot of this is, um, unofficial,” she says.

Jughead scoffs. “What, are you worried I’ll tell someone? Your half of town wouldn’t listen to anything I have to say and my half wouldn’t care.” Then he shoots her an apologetic glance. “I’m not saying _I_ don’t care.”

“So, what do you want to know?”

“Why Cheryl said those…things about you.”

_Loon. Clinically insane. Hissy fit._ Very deliberately, she splays her hands behind her, leaning back to rest on her arms. The delicate new grass is soft against her palms.

“Jason and Polly started dating in their sophomore year,” she says. “Our parents didn’t like it. Mom, as you know, hardly approves of anything, and least of all boyfriends, but the weird thing was dad. He was super pissed. Unreasonably pissed. So Polly kept it half-secret, sneaking out at night, letting Jason in the window route.”

Here she can’t help but throw Jughead a glance, and he snorts softly, looking away with a lopsided smile.

“But that summer, two years ago, she got pregnant,” she goes on. “She didn’t tell mom and dad, and according to what she told me later, she and Jason had made plans to run away somewhere and have the babies. I was away on an internship when all of this happened, but basically, dad found her packing her bags. Once he managed to wring the truth from her he locked her in her room and started making phone calls to abortion clinics.”

“Wow.”

Betty breathes in deeply and pushes her fingers through the grass until her nails are digging into the soil. Part of her knows she shouldn’t be talking about this, especially not to someone she’s only known for a few weeks. Especially not about what came next. But the story is unraveling in her chest now and she needs to get it out, so she goes on.

“Polly climbed out the window and went to Thornhill to meet with Jason, only…”

“He was already dead,” Jughead fills in. “The fourth of July tragedy at Thornhill, right?”

Betty nods. “Right. You know the official story.”

“He tripped and drowned in a scalding vat of maple syrup. A freak accident.”

“Only...it’s not true,” she says, and now there’s really no turning back.

Jughead looks sharply at her. “What do you mean?”

“He hanged himself. From the rafters of the barn where they keep the barrels of syrup. Polly found them just as they were taking him down.”

“You’re kidding me,” says Jughead quietly, eyes shining with a weird kind of eagerness. “A suicide? _Jason Blossom_ killed himself?”

“No one knows,” she says warningly.

“And I won’t tell,” he says. Then he taps his arm, just below the shoulder. “Serpent’s honor. But why? And how come no one knows?”

“They covered it up,” she says, and when she’s met by a puzzled look, she clarifies. “My mom has been bribing the coroner for juicy details for _years_ , Jughead, and she’s not even very rich.”

“And yet Mrs. C... _Alice Cooper_ kept quiet about this? How much did the Blossoms pay _you_?”

Betty smiles bitterly. “Not a penny. You see, the reason _why_ he hanged himself was more than enough incentive.” She sits up and studies her hands, then starts scraping the dirt from under her fingernails. “It turns out we’re related to the Blossoms. Dad’s grandfather was a Blossom. Apparently Mr. and Mrs. Blossom only told Jason once it became clear he was going to, I don’t know, _elope_ with her. And when Jason realized...”

“Oh, okay, yeah,” says Jughead, pulling a face.

“To be honest it’s not _that_ bad,” says Betty. “Jason was our third cousin.”

“Not exactly Targaryen level incest,” Jughead agrees. “But still.”

“But still. Still enough to make him…” she trails off. “Cheryl blamed Polly for it. Said she probably tricked Jason into getting her pregnant. Polly was torn up. Of course she was. And dad still wanted her to have the abortion. But for various reasons, mom took that very personally, and threw him out instead. When I came back from my internship, it was to Jason dead, Polly gone and dad packing his bags.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, well. Good riddance to dad at least.”

She wipes her hands on her jeans, dusting the last of the dirt off. If she could, she’d wipe her conscience of the guilt that she feels when she thinks about Hal. She loves him still, and it makes her sick with guilt. She knows she shouldn’t love him. Sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she hates him with all her heart, but then that makes her feel just as bad.

“As for the crazy Cooper ladies...” she goes on, in a cheerful voice. “You already know what mom is like. I’ll be the first to admit she’s unstable at best. She sent Polly to a home. An asylum, Cheryl will tell you, but it was more like a convent, with nuns and everything. To have the babies in secret. But honestly, Polly wasn’t okay. She wasn’t. Mentally, I mean.”

“That’s understandable though.”

“Yes, it is. But people only know half the story. And although she’s kind of okay now, they still remember her as the basketcase who dropped out and moved to a farm when her boyfriend died.”

Cheryl hadn’t been okay either. She’d been out of school for months, and eventually held back a year. People hadn’t talked as much about that. Cheryl had talked more than enough herself.

“As for me…” Betty says, then pauses.

She had spent the rest of that summer hyperfocusing on her crush on Archie, and then Veronica had appeared, and she’d spent all fall being torn apart by not only the divorce and school and Polly’s pregnancy, but by how much she loved her new friend, and how jealous she made her. About Archie. About everything. It feels almost surreal thinking about it now, and she’s definitely not telling Jughead. Instead she sticks a hand out, palm turned up. _It’s okay_ , she tells herself. He’s seen it happen, after all.

“Sometimes I get so angry,” she says.

Sometimes it feels like her body isn’t enough to contain it all. All the anger. All of her.

“It helps,” she goes on. “But sometimes, I kind of flip.”

“You flipped at Cheryl?” asks Jughead, and he has the nerve to look _amused_.

“On more than one occasion.”

He gives a low whistle and she realizes she got it wrong. He’s not amused, but impressed.

“I know this is probably inappropriate, but I would have liked to see that,” he says.

Despite everything, Betty smiles, and Jughead smiles back. Then he turns serious.

“Look, have you talked to anyone about this?” he asks.

“Like I said, no one knows.”

“Not that,” he says. Then he reaches for her hand and turns it over. “This.”

_Oh._ “You mean _talk_ talk?”

“Yeah. Or maybe Alice…” he says, but her eyes must betray her because he pulls a face. “Okay, not her.”

“No,” she agrees. “And no. I haven’t.”

The idea makes her intensely uncomfortable. Her mom knows. Surely she knows. They just don’t talk about it, so clearly it doesn’t need talking about. What would a doctor say? A counselor? Her grades are still impeccable, she lives an easy life, her BMI is healthy. The memory of the anxiety attack hovers at the edge of things, but that week had been _crazy_ and it’s not like she’s felt that way again since. All she really has to show for her so-called problems are the scars. Would they tell her to just stop doing that? She’s not sure she wants to stop.

Jughead lets her hand go and wraps his arms around his legs. “Latetia talks to me when I see her,” he says. “She’s my social worker. Technically, I should be in real therapy, but I think they’re trying to keep the costs down.”

“Does it help?” Betty asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s not terrible.” Jughead looks almost as uncomfortable talking about it as she feels considering it. Then he lies back on the grass, closing his eyes almost as if he’s enjoying the sun now. “It’s just a thought,” he says.

More than anything, Betty wants to lie down next to him and rest her head on his arm. His t-shirt has ridden up, baring a narrow strip of pale skin. At the centre of if she can glimpse the coarse dark hair of his treasure trail. She’d run her finger across that strip, she thinks. Let those hairs tickle her wrist.

But she has no idea if he’d want that, and anyway, it’s nearly time for Algebra.


	15. Riding in Cars with Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to [nimmieamee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimmieamee/pseuds/nimmieamee) and [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily). This chapter would have been a mess without them. That's something you hear people say a lot, but trust me, this time it's extremely true. I've fiddled with it until the very last minute, and any mistakes are (of course) on me.

_Let me tell you about my picture of Betty Cooper._

_You would think that I’d have more than one to show for those weeks of living wall to wall, of breathing the same air, of unlikely heart-to-hearts. But I was never one to shove my phone in someone’s face. I was never one to ask either, though she might have said yes._

_Maybe. I still don’t know how these things really work._

_By the time we started our freshman year, Sweet Pea was getting odd jobs of the kind I didn’t really want to hear about. Jobs doing this or that for the older Serpents. He was the first of us to get a proper phone, one with a working camera and an unlimited texts and calls plan. One night when we were all at the Twilight, watching something from the roof of the booth, that phone kept bleeping incessantly in his pocket. Sweets ignored it to the extent that the rest of us were going nuts._

_“Just reply, you idiot,” said Toni, smacking his arm._

_“I don’t know what to say!” complained Sweet Pea. “She keeps sending me pictures. What do I say to that? What does she want?”_

_So the messages were from that girl in our year. Samantha ‘Sammy’ Singh. I didn’t know what Sammy wanted either. At first she’d wanted Sweet Pea’s number, but now she seemed to want something that I had only just begun to consider and only in the vaguest of terms. But Sweet Pea was already pushing six feet and had to shave once in a while, so maybe he should have been prepared._

_“She wants compliments,” said Fangs._

_“Validation,” said Toni._

_“Do you even want to talk to her?” I asked._

_But he had his phone out by then, and was receiving detailed instructions from Toni. Apparently she knew the ins and out of smartphone courting despite being stuck with a seven year old Motorola. A few minutes later Sweet Pea’s pocket was bleeping again._

_“She wants a picture of me now,” he said anxiously. “What do I do? Jug, can you take one of me?” He held the phone out._

_“No!” said Fangs and Toni as one._

_“That would be super weird,” said Toni, pulling Sweet Pea’s arm back._

_“She wants a selfie,” Fangs explained._

_It was like some kind of mass psychosis had struck and I was the only one left unaffected. A zombie apocalypse of dating with me as the sole survivor._

_By the time I met Betty, I had reluctantly dipped a toe, maybe even half a foot in the murky waters of mutual affection. I had kissed a whooping grand total of four different girls. And I had spent a full hour making out with Betty in my borrowed bed and she hadn’t seemed to hate it. She had shared her deepest darkest secrets with me behind the bleachers of the football field, and they hadn’t frightened me. Yet when she sent a picture of herself, hair falling softly around her face, I was suddenly fourteen again, asking myself those same stupid questions._

_What does she want? What do I say?_

 

* * *

 

The wind whips at Betty’s face as she zooms down Wilson Park Drive on her bike. She’s on her way to Kevin’s, having successfully convinced her mom that a Friday night in watching Dancing With The Stars is the height of excitement to a couple of sexually inactive (not to mention incompatible) seventeen year olds. Jughead had given her a thumbs up behind Alice’s back and mouthed ‘Smooth’ at her before heading off to work.

 _Jughead._ He’s fluttering around in her chest again, tangling himself in all her thoughts. She had told him more than she meant to this afternoon, but he seemed to take it in stride. He sat next to her at Algebra as usual, drove her home as usual, made dry remarks about low-fat cheese and wholegrain bread while making sandwiches to bring to work until she couldn’t help but smile at him. When he left for the Bijou she felt a twinge of regret, like the bridge they’d been slowly rebuilding had been left unfinished and on hold until further notice.

A party might be good, she thinks as she turns onto Marigold Street. To clear her thoughts and have some fun. She’ll simply have to figure out how to figure him out some other time.

Betty arrives at Kevin's house just as the Sheriff is leaving for his shift, and while the memory of their last encounter makes her smile stiffly at him, it definitely strengthens her alibi. Because Alice is Alice, Betty and Kevin pose for several selfies, all with his alarm clock clearly visible in one corner. Between each picture, they spin the minute hand forward fifteen minutes until she's covered until way past midnight.

“Archie said we’ll be back before two,” she says, and then gives him a quick hug. “Thanks for playing my proxy chaperone.”

“Thank _you_ for being my snake beard,” says Kevin.

While she waits for Archie and Veronica to pick her up, Betty gets ready in the bathroom. She changes into a cute, cream-colored dress and takes extra care with her makeup. A small, bitter part of her keeps reminding her what a shame it is that Jughead won’t get to see her all dolled up. During an especially nonsensical moment, she decides to brush out her ponytail, all while playing out a completely unlikely scenario in her head where next week, someone tells him that he’d missed out on the craziest party in a decade. _And the craziest thing of all? Betty Cooper, diving from a trampoline in her underwear,_ _with her hair down_.

By the time she comes out of the bathroom, Joaquin has arrived.

“Seeing Jughead tonight?” he asks, eyeing her curiously.

Betty glances at Kevin.

“I haven't said anything,” says Kevin, raising his hands defensively.

“He's working,” says Betty evenly to Joaquin.

Joaquin looks from Betty to Kevin and back again. “Right, what's he done now?” he asks. “I thought you two had something going on.”

“Okay,” says Betty slowly. “What makes you think that?”

“He took you to the Whyte Wyrm,” he shrugs, as if that explains everything. “Also, I don’t know if you noticed, but at that party at the Pembrooke he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

“Oh,” says Betty, a blush rising in her cheeks.

“Also Kevin told me.”

“Kevin!” says Betty, glaring at him.

“He asked!” says Kevin. “You can _tell_ , you know. Or could.”

“Again,” says Joaquin. “What’s he done?”

Betty shrugs and makes a vague noise. She feels like whatever it is she has going on with Jughead is on the mend right now. Kevin, however, doesn’t know they spent their free period talking about covered up suicides and the mental health of the Cooper women, and decides to speak for her.

“Let’s just say he didn’t exactly have an ideal response when Betty had some questions about his, uh, feelings,” he says. “And about his ex.”

“Ex?” says Joaquin with a frown. “You mean Toni? Okay, I wouldn’t… I mean it’s not really my place to say, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Betty freezes in the middle of zipping her bag up. “I sure wish I could have heard that from him,” she says evenly, but his words are a weight off her chest all the same.

“Jughead’s not great at that stuff,” says Joaquin. “Talking. About that kind of thing, I mean.”

“I think she noticed,” says Kevin.

“I’m serious,” says Joaquin, voice soft but stubborn. “I know he comes across like an moody little shit most of the time, but if you knew him, you’d know.”

She supposes she doesn't really know him. After all, he put up walls quicker than Ty Pennington when she tried to talk to him about him. But, she thinks, when she talked to him about _her_ , her own walls had come tumbling down at an alarming speed.

“What do you mean?” she asks Joaquin, because she feels like this is maybe a thread that she can pull at, to start unraveling the mystery of Jughead.

He seems to think about it for a moment. “Like for example when Fangs moved here in seventh grade,” he says. “Jughead and Sweet Pea had been best friends forever, but then Fangs and Sweets kind of clicked instantly and started hanging out lots. And Jughead just went completely silent for five weeks straight. He wouldn’t talk to _anyone_. At first everyone just ignored him, because it wasn’t like he hadn’t done weird shit before. But after a couple of weeks, Sweets tried to talk to him again, and Jughead still wouldn’t say anything. He was like a clam. He wouldn’t even talk to the teachers.”

He pauses briefly, looking thoughtful.

“They didn’t actually seemed to mind,” he says. “Understandable, I guess. So anyway, after _five_ weeks of this, Sweet Pea just exploded after school and started yelling at him, threatening to punch him if he didn’t say something and, well, Jughead broke the silence by calling him an asshole and then went for him. I’ve never seen Jughead that angry. Not before, not since. He actually managed to knock one of Sweet Pea’s teeth out before Sweets sank him out of sheer confusion. Then someone went to fetch FP who chewed them out and made them repaint the bike shop as punishment for fighting, and eventually things went back to normal.”

“So, what you’re saying is, Betty should try and pick a fight?” says Kevin slowly.

“No,” says Joaquin, exasperated. “I’m saying he has _issues_. With trust and stuff.”

 _And stuff_ , Betty thinks. The kind of stuff that would make you leave home and go live in a projection booth, for starters.

“He likes you, Betty,” Joaquin adds. “And yeah, he’s always going to be a moody little shit, but if you can live with that, he’s a good guy.”

And then the horn of Fred Andrews’ truck sounds, muffled through the front door, and it’s time for Betty to go.

 

* * *

 

Betty has rarely been to Greendale, even though it’s just a few miles away from Riverdale. Centreville is the place to go for shopping and is the town that’s sometimes lucky enough to book a pop concert with some not completely unknown singer-songwriter. Greendale’s singer-songwriters tend towards the scraggly-bearded, very local kind, because Greendale is the place to go if you’re looking for incense-smelling ponchos, dream catchers and a palmistry reading.  

They pass through the town centre and continue up a steep hill. The higher they climb, the fewer wind chimes in the trees, and quirky mailboxes and garden paths give way to more austere driveways and well-trimmed hedges. When they arrive at the given address it makes perfect sense to Betty that they were invited through Reggie. Just like the Mantle residence, this villa is grand, modern and fronted with expensive cars. Reggie isn’t disgustingly rich like Cheryl, or wealthy in a vaguely untouchable way like Veronica, but he’s still undeniably loaded. As are the owners of this house, if the ceiling-to-floor windows and sleek design are anything to go by.

“Quaint,” says Veronica, eyeing the entrance critically as Archie rings the doorbell.

They can hear music and laughter inside, and with an annoyed tut Veronica reaches over and opens the door.

“Hey, we don’t know these people!” Archie protests.

“We were _invited_ , Archiekins,” says Veronica, striding ahead inside. “Besides, a Lodge does not wait to be seated, so why should I suffer waiting fruitlessly for someone to hear a doorbell in all this noise?”

Inside, the party is in not-quite full swing with people crowding the hallways, drinking and talking too loudly. It’s difficult to get a sense of the layout of the house, which seems to consist of various open plan spaces connected with short staircases and corridors. Veronica leads them confidently on, the crowds somehow parting before her while Betty has to weave in and out of people turning their heads in Ronnie’s wake. They pass a room with big flat screen TV showing a football game and any number of bean bags with jocks lounging on them, an office with very few books, but also an aquarium that puts the one in _Romeo + Juliet_ to shame, and a lounge area where several identical looking skinny girls with straightened hair held back with double barrettes are sipping drinks in uncomfortable silence.

“Ah!” Veronica exclaims as they turn a corner into a dining area. “The heart of every party, Betty, beats in the kitchen. And failing that, at least that’s where they keep the alcohol.”

The kitchen is also where they find Reggie.

“Betty! Ronnie!” he calls, gathering them both up in a bear hug that Veronica somehow manages to slip away from, leaving Betty uncomfortably crushed in Reggie’s armpit. “Where’s Archie?” he asks as Betty pries his arm away.

Veronica looks around behind her, even glances down on the floor, then turns back with a pleasant smile. “It appears we lost him. Perhaps he was distracted by the football.”

“You want drinks?” Reggie asks, then turns towards the kitchen island and starts making them without waiting for a reply. “Simple yet elegant,” he says, cracking open an energy drink and pouring it into a couple of cups. “Amaretto and Red Bull, or as I like to call it… The Magic Carpet.”

He hands them to the girls, grinning widely. Betty sniffs hers suspiciously, then takes a sip. It’s sweet, but surprisingly good.

“Interesting,” says Veronica politely, then hands the cup to a girl passing by. “But where can I find something more expensive?”

“There’s a bar in the living room,” says Reggie.

“Which living room? We passed at least three on the way here.”

“Try the one with a bar, Ronnie,” he says sarcastically.

Veronica looks shocked. “Well excuse you, Reginald. Come on Betty, let’s go find some better company, not to mention better drinks.”

But Betty has just spotted Ethel in the next room, leaning up against the wall and looking glum.

“Ethel’s over there,” she says. “I’ll just go say hi to her, I’ll find you later, okay?”

She makes her way into yet another lounge, this one overlooking the promised pool, and catches Ethel in a hug.

“I didn’t know you were coming!” says Betty.

“Thank god for a friendly face,” says Ethel. “I’m here babysitting my brother.”

“Your…older brother?”

“My parents think that if he has me to think of, he won’t drink,” she explains.

“Is it working?” Betty asks.

“See for yourself,” says Ethel, nodding towards the other side of the room, where Everett Muggs is currently busy losing a shots race against some Greendale girl.

“Screw him,” says Betty, pulling Ethel over to a loveseat by the window and sitting her down. “Tell me everything about what’s going on at the _Blue and Gold_! I’m totally out of the loop!”

They sit there and chat and gossip companionably for a while. Betty sips her drink and after another look at Everett, Ethel says ‘fuck it’ and gets herself a beer from the kitchen. Just as they bump their cups together playfully, someone grabs Betty by the shoulder. When she turns around, she’s facing Archie.

“Betty, what are you doing?”

“What?” she frowns.

“You’re drinking!” he says.

“So are you,” she says, nodding at the mandatory red solo cup in his hand.

“Yeah, because I didn’t think you would be,” he says.

For a few seconds she turns his words over in her head. Is he getting protective? About her? But then he looks guilty all of a sudden, and the two patches of red on his cheeks that he always gets when he’s drinking start growing.

“Why exactly did you not think I was going to drink?” she says, but even as she asks the question, it dawns on her. She can feel her face turn hard. “Oh. You need a driver. Right?”

By the look of him, he’s already had significantly more than her. She looks down at the near-empty cup in her hand and thinks about units, night buses and taxi money.

“Betty…”

“No, it’s cool,” she mutters, getting up and moving towards the kitchen. “If I stop now I’ll be fine to drive in a couple of hours.”

Archie doesn’t exactly look sorry as he trails along beside her. He looks like he’s _trying_ to look sorry. “I should have said–”

“No,” she says, putting her cup down on the granite kitchen counter. “You should have _asked_.”

Betty pushes past him and towards the lounge again, her mood completely and utterly ruined. Unfortunately, Ethel has disappeared but Betty refuses to let Archie think she walked out here for nothing so she heads towards the open door leading out to the pool deck. She doesn’t check to see if Archie follows her, but as she hesitates in the door opening it becomes increasingly apparent that he hasn’t, so she steps outside. The temperature has plummeted along with the sun, but the poolside furniture is clustered around a patio heater and Betty heads towards it.

A few Greendalians are milling about and there’s a couple kissing in the pool, but it’s far from crowded out here. With a quick ‘hello’ to those nearby, Betty sits down on the edge of a recliner and pulls her phone out. There’s no notifications, and she fiddles with a strand of hair as she contemplates texting Jughead. She pulls up their conversation and cringes at the sight of the exchange about how she made his bed. She chickened out that time, she thinks, and then quickly composes a message if only to push the older texts up the screen, out of sight and out of mind.

 

10.11pm  
How’s work? :)

 

She hits send, then clicks the screen off, but within seconds the phone hums in her hand several times in rapid succession. Her heart speeds up a little as she unlocks the phone to read his replies.

 

10.11pm  
Boring.

 

10.11pm  
I’m barely even babysitting these machines. No craft in modern day technology.

 

10.11pm  
How’s the party?

 

10.12pm  
Boring!

 

With a few quick swipes, she brings up the camera. It takes at least ten tries before she manages to snap a selfie where she looks appropriately bored but still reasonably cute. As soon as she’s sent it, she regrets it. Who the hell sends a picture of themselves, bored at a party? She makes herself turn the screen off again, refusing to sit there and stare at it, hoping for the accursed jumping dots to appear.

Inside the house the party seems to be picking up speed and a mellow Drake song is rudely interrupted by something considerably more upbeat. The girl in the pool shrieks a laugh at something the boy does under the water, and Betty wrenches her gaze away from them, then checks her phone. There’s no reply from Jughead.

“You okay, sweetie?”

Betty snaps her head up to meet the eyes of one of the girls at the nearby table. Her hair is soaked and she’s wrapped in a towel, but one hand sticks out, nursing a bottle of wine.

“Um, fine thanks,” says Betty.

The girl looks decidedly drunk, cheeks blossoming and eyes slightly glazed over. “Boy trouble?” she says cocking her head sluggishly. She holds the bottle out, stretching towards Betty. “Want some?”

“No, I’m fine,” says Betty with a smile. “Honestly.”

“Just me then,” slurs the girl and puts the bottle to her lips, taking a long drink before turning back to her friends.

Betty watches them for a couple of seconds and then turns back to her phone, thinking maybe it’s just as well that she had to stop drinking. When she turns on the screen, a nervous thrill shoots through her chest. Jughead has replied, and she unlocks the phone at lightning speed. It’s a picture, but her heart sinks a little when it’s just his feet, propped up against a table littered with empty popcorn boxes and soda cups. That’s not fair, she thinks.

 

10.16pm  
That’s not fair.

 

10.16pm  
What’s not fair

 

10.16pm  
?

 

Maybe it’s that one Magic Carpet, or maybe it’s Joaquin’s _He likes you, Betty_ , but something makes her bold when she replies.

 

10.17pm  
You got my bored face, I got bored feet :(

 

A minute later he sends her a selfie, and Betty grins as she studies it, taking in the hints of unruly hair under the beanie, the unimpressed scowl, the two fingers held up in an ironic V-sign.

 

10.18pm  
Better?

 

She’s just about to reply when Reggie plops down next to her.

“There she is!” he says, his immaculate teeth on full display in a confident smirk. “Betty Cooper, a regular renegade, flown the nest for an epic night in Greendale with the Reg.” Then he puts his arm around her, squishes his face against hers and snaps a picture with his phone.

“Don’t post that anywhere,” she says, squirming away from him.

“Why not? It looks great!” But he pockets the phone and thrusts a glass at her instead. “Champagne for Madame?”

“It's Mademoiselle, Reggie,” she says, pushing his hand firmly but gently away. “And it turns out that I'm driving, so…”

“So am I! Such a bummer,” he says, shaking his head despondently. “Champagne?” he asks the girl with the wine bottle, who happily takes it and drains it in a matter of seconds.

“I'm not really feeling this party,” he says, turning to Betty again. “Sorry it’s not actually epic.”

“That’s hardly your fault.”

Reggie has been weirdly tolerable the last couple of weeks, not an ass-pinch or wolf whistle in sight, and she listens with half an ear as he talks about the end of the football season (“We’re going to rip the Ravens apart next game”), prom (“I thought Masquerade Ball just meant dressing up as whatever, turns out we’ll have to wear these fancy beaks, like what the hell”), and the school election (“Cheryl still doesn’t know all the Bulldogs are going to vote for Veronica, she’s going to _freak_ ”).

“Speaking of Cheryl,” he says, a slight frown on his face. “I think she’s going to try something on Thursday.”

Betty’s ears prick up at this. Thursday is the day of the election. “What do you mean?”

“She still thinks I’m team Cheryl, so she’s a little loose-lipped around me, right? And if you’re asking me, she’s way too confident about winning.”

“She won’t win,” says Betty with a huff. “Veronica is miles ahead of her in all the polls.”

“I know. And not even Cheryl is that deluded, which is why I’m thinking maybe she’s come up with some way to cheat.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know!” he says. “Corrupt counters? Fake ballots? How am I supposed to know? I’m just a dumb jock, but you’re the journalist, right? I’m giving you a lead here.”

“Thanks,” she says, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the side of the recliner.

The wheels in her head are already spinning fast, thinking about possible ways to cheat in an election. For some reason, she finds herself wanting to tell Jughead, maybe make it something to work on while they wait for his Southside friends to bring them news about FP’s case. A rigged election would be right up his street, probably.

“That looks nice though,” says Reggie then, nodding at the couple in the pool who may or may not have reached second base by now. “Wanna go for a swim?”

She side-eyes him doubtfully. “I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” she says.

“Neither did she,” says Reggie, looking at the girl with the wine.

Her towel has slipped down, revealing a white bra not unlike the one Betty is wearing under the dress. The visit to the pool has made it alarmingly see-through, Betty notes. _And the craziest thing of all? Betty Cooper, diving from a trampoline. In see-through underwear._ She shudders slightly at the thought.

“Actually...” Reggie says, frowning down at his phone. Then he looks up with another Colgate smile. “Hey, I love this song! Let’s go dance!”

She protests vaguely as he pulls her up and leads her inside, where the steady pounding of an upbeat house song gradually becomes louder until it drowns out everything else. In the living room, someone has pushed the sofa aside to create a makeshift dance floor that’s filled with people dancing and grinding, their movements slightly exaggerated with intoxication. Betty tries to twist free to head back outside, but then she spots Veronica dancing over to the side with one of the senior Bulldogs, so she pulls away from Reggie and heads over there instead.

“Hey girl,” Veronica yells over the music, throwing an arm around her. “Please feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, and right now I would _love_ to be wrong, but were you holding hands with Reggie Mantle?”

“God, no!” says Betty, giving Veronica a horrified look. “He was dragging me along, Ronnie. Big difference.”

“Excellent! Because as of his faux pas in the kitchen he is firmly in the bad section of my extensive library of books. Besides, I’m not sure Jughead would approve,” Veronica says with a wink before turning her attention back to the brawny footballer.

 _Jughead_. Cursing under her breath, Betty scrambles for her phone. She managed to get him to send that cute selfie and now she’s left him on read for at least ten minutes. Fumbling over the keys, she starts typing a message but doesn’t get any further than ‘Sorry’ before Reggie appears, thrusting another drink towards her.

“Fanta?” he shouts.

Then he suddenly stumbles forward, and the soda goes flying, splashing all over Betty’s dress.

“Oh, come on!” Betty whines, looking down at the growing orange stain on her chest.

“Betty, I’m so sorry!” says Reggie. “Some asshole bumped into me.” He turns around and glares menacingly at two girls who are dancing some way away, blissfully unaware they’re being pinned for a crime they in all probability did not commit.

“It’s fine,” she says between clenched teeth. “Where’s the bathroom?”

To his credit, Reggie shows her, apologizing the whole way, and when he finds out that she’s brought a change of clothes he offers to get her bag from Archie’s truck. While she waits, Betty wipes down the dress as best as she can with wet toilet paper, then replies to Jughead.

 

10.32pm  
Sorry someone spilled their drink on me

 

10.32pm  
In the bathroom now getting cleaned up

 

10.32pm  
Much better yes. I like your hair :)

 

 _Wait, what?_ “I like your hair?” she mutters to herself. You can _barely_ see the hair, she thinks. “Idiot,” she says out loud.

 

10.33pm  
Yours looks good too

 

And just like that, she has no regrets whatsoever about sounding like an idiot. Then Reggie knocks on the door to hand her her bag, and she changes back into her jeans and sweater, her belly buzzing with happiness. Unfortunately, that happiness turns into a wave of cold anxiety the moment she leaves the bathroom. Not five yards away, she can see a familiar coppery red cascade of hair, and the head it’s attached to is talking to Reggie.

“She’s supposed to be here!” says Cheryl in an annoyed voice. “I can’t wait to snap a pic of that bipolar Barbie and slide it into Mama Cooper’s Twitter DMs.”

“Honestly, I don’t think she’s here,” says Reggie, pointedly staring right past Cheryl at Betty. “You’re wasting your time.”

Betty takes the hint and quickly retraces her steps into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She leans against the wall and lets out a slow breath, wondering why Murphy’s Law seems to have it in for her in particular tonight. A few seconds later, she jumps at the sound of someone knocking on the door.

“It’s me,” says Reggie from outside, and she lets him in.

“What is she doing here?” Betty says, her voice close to a wail.

“Looking for you.”

“Yeah, I could tell. Ugh, what do I do?”

Reggie sucks in his lips and shakes his head. “Honestly? You should probably leave. Like, now.”

“But I can’t! I’ve been drinking! I need to wait, like,” she glances at her phone, “three more hours or something before I drive.”

“I’ll drive you,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “This party sucks anyway.”

Betty stares at him, stunned and grateful. Then she remembers she’s not the only one going home tonight. “Crap, I’m meant to be driving Archie and Ronnie.”

“Veronica has a _driver_ ,” Reggie points out. “She’s also got money coming out of her ass, and if she can’t get Smithers to pick her up, she could probably order an Ubercopter from New York to fly her home.”

He’s right, and in her heart Betty knows that Veronica will understand. “But I should check with Archie…” she says.

Reggie looks away uncomfortably. “Yeah, Andrews is, uh, otherwise occupied right now,” he says. “Upstairs. By which I mean he's-”

“I _know_ what you mean,” Betty interrupts him, willing herself to not go there mentally.

That settles it. She texts an apology slash explanation to Veronica, then follows closely behind Reggie as they sneak through the house like Fred and Daphne, peeking around corners and hurrying past open doors on their way out from the party and away from Cheryl.

“Thank you,” says Betty with a relieved sigh as she straps herself in in Reggie's Audi.

“Anytime, Betts. Next stop Elm street?”

“Uh, Kevin's, actually.”

“You got it.”

The car smells new in a way that’s mildly nauseating, and Betty suspects he’s borrowed it from his dad's business. When he turns the engine on with the touch of button, her seat adjusts itself, and even the stereo sounds expensive. After weeks of riding in Jughead’s loud, cranky yet undeniably comfy truck, she finds herself worrying about leaving marks on the creamy white interior.

At least it’s fast and quiet, she thinks distantly, as she watches the trees flicker by, grey and flat looking in the harsh glare from the headlights. She checks her phone but there are no notifications. Honestly, she probably doesn’t deserve any, having left Jughead on read again. Her bike is parked outside Kevin’s and it’s still early, she muses. Maybe she could brave the night streets and bike over to the Bijou for a couple of hours before bedtime.

“Shit!” says Reggie then, his hand leaving the steering wheel and flying up to his face, and for a few terrifying seconds Betty clings to her seat as the car swerves right and then left, before he manages to straighten it.

“What happened?” Betty asks, heart beating hard in her throat.

“My contact,” says Reggie, blinking furiously. “I think I dropped it.”

“Pull over!” Betty says, staring incredulously at him while they speed on, the car drifting dangerously towards the middle of the road.

“I can’t! The river’s there!”

He’s right, she realizes. The Sweetwater is snaking its way north on Betty’s side, and there’s no hard shoulder on Reggie’s - just a steep drop into a ditch.

“Help me look for it!” Reggie demands. “I think it’s on the floor or something.”

She leans over and awkwardly tries to get her head in a position where she can see between his legs without nudging the gearstick. “At least slow down!” she says, hands trembling as she turns on the flashlight on her phone to see better.

“Get off the stick!”

Betty squirms towards him, head now firmly pressed against his abs in a way she’d never imagined she’d have to experience with Reggie Mantle.

“I can’t see it,” she groans, shining the little light everywhere she can think to look - the floor, his legs, his shoes. “Just pull over somewhere!”

“Shit, false alarm,” says Reggie then with a little laugh. “It’s still in my eye. It just got stuck, I can feel it now.”

Betty scrambles back up and pushes the hair out of her eyes. “What the hell?” she says furiously. She’s furious at being frightened, furious at having just spent several seconds with her head between his legs.

“I thought I dropped it!” he snaps back at her.

Finally, he pulls over. They’re at some deserted picnic area overlooking the river, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s trembling with rage and slight shock, and that she’s here with Reggie, Betty might find it pretty. The moon is out, making the Sweetwater a wide, glittering silver ribbon below them and Betty glares at the scenery while Reggie pokes around in his eye, using the rearview mirror to see.

“Sorry about that,” he says, and turns off the interior lights.

“It’s okay,” she says, forcing a smile his way.

“Nice spot,” he says, nodding out the window.

“Sure,” says Betty with a shrug. Now that she’s reasonably calm again, a strange kind of discomfort is starting to gnaw at her. Why aren’t they going?

“So, prom on Wednesday…” he says.

Betty can feel herself deflate, crumple up and start withering away with exhausted disbelief. How much of this evening has been leading up to this? The Magic Carpet? The poolside chat? The spilled drink? The offer of a ride for sure.

“Reggie…” she starts.

“Why not, Betty? You’re not going with anyone else, why not with me?”

He looks genuinely hopeful, his dark eyes pretty and pleading.

“I’m not going with anyone because I’ll be busy working,” she says, making one last effort to let him down gently. “Overseeing the decorations and stuff.”

“In that case…”

And he leans over and presses his lips against hers, and when she leans away, flabbergasted, he  _follows_ , so she pushes him. Hard.

“Get _off_!” she grunts, shoving him again, and then again, even though he’s already back in his seat, leaning away from her and against the window.

“Jesus Betty, what the hell is wrong with you?” Reggie says, holding his arms up as shields.

“What’s wrong with _me_?”

She’s so angry she can’t even think of anything to say. Instead she fumbles with the seatbelt until it clicks open, then tries to open the door, only to find it locked.

“Let me out!” she screams, batting at him again with her left arm.

“Alright, alright!” says Reggie, still holding a hand up while pressing a button at his side. “There, it’s open!”

She stumbles out of the car and slams the door shut, then walks over to the picnic table and leans on it, breathing hard. From behind her she can hear the sound of Reggie getting out of the car, so she spins around.

“Come on,” he says. “Get in the car so we can go back to Riverdale.”

“Leave me alone,” she says in a low voice.

“This is crazy, Betty!” he says. “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you, okay? I guess I got the wrong idea. But you need to get back in the car.”

“I’m not getting back in that car!”

“And how the hell are you planning on getting home? Just get in the damn car!”

“I would rather walk,” she says, practically spitting the words out.

“Fine!” he snaps. “You know, I guess it’s true what they say about the crazy Coopers. You’re just as bad as your sister. Worse, maybe. You’re lucky I’m not a goddamn snitch or I’d be calling your mom, tell her you’re out here assaulting innocent men. You’re lucky I’m such a nice guy, because I’m going to give you one last chance to get. In. The car.”

Betty scrapes her nails across the table behind her, feels one catch and break. She’s not about to give him the satisfaction of replying to that, so she just shakes her head slowly.

“Fine!” he yells again, and gets back in the car.

The engine gives a loud rumble, and he's off, but before turning back out on the road, the car screeches to a halt. Reggie opens his door and throws Betty’s bag out, then speeds away towards Riverdale. The further away those red lights go, the lighter her chest feels, the easier her breathing. When they disappear behind a bend in the road she sighs with relief.

Since she’s one hairband short of a ponytail she tucks her hair behind her ears and then walks over to pick up her bag. Then she gets her phone out, contemplating who to call. She tries to think how much it would be to get a taxi, then calls Kevin. He doesn’t pick up, which must mean he’s busy with Joaquin. Veronica doesn’t answer either, so perhaps she got lucky with that senior. Archie is out of the question, given that he’s both drunk and possibly still boning that girl upstairs at the party. Jughead is...hopefully working and not having sex with some random person. She chews at her broken nail, then decides that she deserves to hear a friendly voice.

He picks up on the second ring.

_“Betty, what’s up?”_

He sounds concerned, and that pokes at something inside her, something that has her choking back a sob.

“Hey, uh…” she wipes a stray tear off her cheek, willing herself not to sniff. “I know you’re working, but the stupidest thing just happened and now I’m kind of stuck in the middle of nowhere.”

_“What happened? Where are you?”_

She looks around, trying uselessly to estimate roughly where she is. “On the road from Greendale. I don’t know. Some kind of vista spot. There’s a picnic table.”

_“You’re alone?”_

“Yeah, I…I was getting a ride with Reggie and apparently that was a bad idea.” She laughs shakily.

_“Can you send me a screenshot of your location on Google Maps or something? I think I know the place, but…”_

She can hear him moving around, walking, perhaps opening a door. “Jughead, you're working,” she protests.

_“Don't try and hitch a ride with a stranger, okay?”_

“No, of course not, but–!”

_“And stay away from the road. I'm on my way.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I'm usually snail-like with my updates, I actually found myself having to cut this in two, which means that the next chapter will be posted shortly. Stay tuned, and thank you so much for reading ❤️


	16. Coming Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, many thanks to [nimmieamee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nimmieamee/pseuds/nimmieamee) and [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily) <3
> 
> Please note that the rating for this work has changed.

_When Betty Cooper asked me to write about the Southside and the Northside, about my side and their side, I told her it wouldn’t be pretty. I told her it would be dirty, and raw. What I didn’t tell her is that the Southside is all those things. Raw. Dirty. And pretty._

_I’ve tried to write about the Southside, tried to capture the dirt and the rawness, and every day meant another draft deleted. Because as time went on, I found myself not wanting to tell Betty about those things at all._

_Early one June morning, the week I had to care for Hot Dog, I dragged myself out of bed to take him for a walk. In hindsight I could probably have just let him pee on the patch of grass behind the trailer, but I took my task very seriously, walking him four times daily around Fox Forest or down to Crystal Lake or into the tangled mess of bramble and birches behind the Twilight._

_The light that morning was astounding. Sheer and pale yellow, and made all the more magical by the mist that clung to the trees, to the trailers. The grass glittered, dew sprinkled across it like so many tiny glass beads and it was pretty enough that I almost didn’t mind that my socks were already soaked through from where my toes had poked holes in the canvas. Then Hot Dog stopped, alert, and I pulled at the leash several times before realizing why he wouldn’t budge. Up ahead at the end of the cul-de-sac where the paved roads of Sunnyside faded into dirt tracks and forest trails, a hart stood watching us._

_The rising sun cut the mist into shafts around it, and if it hadn’t been for the mutt growling low by my side, I might have thought I was still dreaming. The hart stood there perfectly still, until Hot Dog barked once, breaking the spell, and then he turned and leapt into the forest and was gone._

_There are other things, too. Things that aren’t out of the ordinary. The smell of matches and marshmallows at the burn barrel. Fangs always singing when he’s doing the washing up. The soft pattering of rain on the roof at the booth at the Twilight. An endless supply of niangao at New Year’s with Sweet Pea. Skipping a stone over the turquoise water of the quarry, or climbing up to the overhang to peer down at the diggers, trapped in their own private Atlantis._

_As time went on, I found myself biting my tongue trying not to tell Betty about all of this. Trying not to picture her there._

_Betty is a different kind of pretty. The kind you might get a fleeting glimpse of but can never grasp._

 

* * *

 

After Betty sends Jughead the screenshot of her location, she sits down to wait. A few cars pass by, but she’s far enough away from the road that they don’t notice her. It’s only a little more than ten minutes before she sees the headlight of Jughead’s bike pulling in from the road, and she gets up and runs over to him.

“You okay?” he asks, climbing off the bike. He unclasps his helmet and replaces it with his beanie quick as a flash.

“Were you speeding?” she scolds, but he hold his arms out and she steps into his embrace, pressing herself against his warm chest.

“Maybe,” he murmurs into her hair, squeezing her tight. “What happened?”

She disentangles from him. “I don’t know. Reggie was giving me a ride back to Kevin’s, and he pulled over here and asked me to prom, _again_ , and–”

“Again?”

“Yeah, I’ve told him no twenty-five times or something. And when I told him no again, he tried to kiss me instead and…”

Thinking back on it she wonders if she maybe she did overreact. She doesn’t really believe he would have tried anything else, she’d just been so angry. And to make matters worse she’s dragged Jughead away from work, and for what? Probably nothing.

“Did he do anything to you?” Jughead asks. He briefly flits his eyes down her body as if checking that all the parts are intact.

“No,” she says hurriedly. “No, he was just being...insistent, so I freaked out a little and got out of the car.”

“And he left you here?”

“I _told_ him to leave me,” she clarifies. “Which, maybe I shouldn’t have. I’m making you miss work, Jughead,” she adds anxiously.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “No one ever misses the projectionist. No one even _thinks_ about the projectionist unless something goes wrong. So unless something does go wrong, I’ve got almost half an hour until people start looking for me.”

He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to her. Underneath it, he’s wearing a wrinkled white shirt and the deep red vest and bowtie that’s the standard uniform at the Bijou. His jeans (that she recognizes as the least ripped, probably newest pair) are still his own, and along with his ever-present beanie it makes for a strangely attractive mix of attire.

“I should ask Alice where she keeps the iron,” he says with a lopsided smile, completely misinterpreting her ogling. “And speaking of Alice, you’d better take the helmet. She’d probably rip my spleen out if she found out you’d been riding without."

The helmet is a decent fit and the sherpa jacket is big and warm, but it’s Jughead’s back that she truly relishes when she climbs up on the seat behind him. She has nothing else to hold on to but Jughead, and so she’s pressed flush against him by necessity. Maybe they should start riding the bike to school, she thinks as they pulls out onto the road.

It’s a heady thing, feeling the wind tugging at her arms and legs as they pick up speed. The cool night air makes her eyes water, and she holds on a little tighter. Even just sitting behind him, she can understand why he prefers this to the truck. It’s a little more dangerous, a lot more free.

“I need to check back in at work before dropping you at Kevin’s,” he shouts, half turning to her.

“Of course!” she yells back.

She has hours before she needs to be at Kevin’s anyway, and she has absolutely no intention of letting him neglect work again. She can wait until his shift finishes, she decides. Besides, it’s practically her duty to keep him company now.

 

* * *

 

The projection booth at the Bijou is very different from the one at the Twilight. Instead of the cramped room that used to double as Jughead’s home, this is an airy, open space with not one, but four large projectors. Two of them hum away loudly and Jughead moves swiftly between them, peering out through the small windows into the theatres, presumably checking that all is well while Betty lingers by the door.

“As if I never left,” he says Jughead when he comes back. “Twenty minutes left on _Tomb Raider_ and ten on _Pacific Rim 2_.”

“And then you’re out?” she asks.

“ _Pacific Rim_ ’s got a midnight screening,” he says. “I’ll be here until, like, quarter past two. But I can get you over to Kevin’s as soon as it’s started, okay?”

“Or I could stay until you finish,” she suggests.

His face seems to brighten a little. “Sure, if you want. Or if you want, you could watch _Pacific Rim_? To pass the time.”

“I could?” she says, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

“There’s back doors into all the screens and I doubt it’s sold out. I’ll just let you in.”

Betty is _almost_ a little disappointed. Sure, the prospect of sneaking in to see a movie is thrilling, but she’d been hoping to spend more time with Jughead. Still, she texts Kevin to let him know where she is and when she’s coming back. There’s no reply this time either, and she rolls her eyes mentally at how some people certainly are getting lucky this evening.

When the movie has finished, she watches Jughead reprogram the projector. Then they wait by the little window until the cleaners have left before he lets her slip into the theatre. It feels exciting and somewhat exclusive, and she sits in the back row, a little to one side. Soon she’s watching the regular, paying customers drop in. Pairs and small groups, settling here and there. She’s the only one on her own, and it does feel strange, sitting alone. Like going out to a restaurant and ordering a table for one. One couple are on their way to the back, but when they spot Betty, they change their minds, moving towards the middle like the rest of the crowd. It’s the biggest out of the four theatres in the cinema, and by the time the lights dim most rows are still empty.

Not long into the movie, while the opening credits are still rolling, she hears the noise of the projector coming from the back door briefly. A moment later, Jughead plops into the seat next to her.

“Skipping work again?” she asks, amused.

“This thing runs itself,” he says. “I think I’ll notice if anything goes wrong.”

The movie is an action-packed spectacle of gleaming metal, orange light, John Boyega and a lot of lens flares - that much she can tell. Sadly, any hope of following the actual story went out the window the minute Jughead sat down. Now all she can think of is how they’re wasting precious moments, moments they could spend talking, or better yet - skip the talking and get back to kissing. She thinks back to the night they watched _Blade Runner_ on the roof of the Twilight, about the way their hands touched, and about what Joaquin told her, and suddenly, she doesn’t feel like spending yet another week or more beating around the bush.

Slowly but deliberately, Betty grabs the armrest between them and pulls it up. Jughead looks at the armrest, then at her. Gently, she puts her hand on his thigh, and he tenses up, glancing down at her hand.

“What?” he says. “What’s wrong?”

She snorts with amusement. “Nothing!” she says quietly.

He still looks confused, almost worried, and she wonders if he’s really that oblivious, or if Joaquin was wrong after all.

“Jughead, do you like me?” she asks, quickly, hurrying the words on before she can change her mind about them.

“What?” he says again, frowning. Then he licks his lips, eyes flickering between hers. “I mean, yeah.”

“Then can’t we just…”

Betty leans in to kiss him, a light, quick kiss. When she pulls back, his face is softer, surprised somehow.

“Can we?” she asks.

_I missed you_ , she thinks when he finally takes the hint and kisses her back. _I missed this_. She squeezes his leg, and he gasps into her mouth. How is it possible to miss someone you've only known for a few weeks so much? He fumbles behind her, pulling at that armrest too. The screen lights up the theatre with an explosion as they lie down across the seats. _How do you miss this in less than a day?_ But as they kiss their way through the movie, at times halfheartedly pulling themselves back up to watch the screen for a few minutes, only to soon slip back into kissing and down on the seats again, she thinks, _how do you not?_

 

* * *

 

When they get on the bike for the second time that night, Betty wraps her arms around Jughead, leaning her head against his back with a sigh. Her lips are tender and slightly swollen from making out for almost two hours straight and yet she didn’t want to stop so soon. She wants to lie down somewhere else with him and keep kissing him until she’s too tired to stay awake. She wants to wake up tomorrow and do it all over again.

“Still want to go to Kevin’s?” he asks over his shoulder, as though he’s read her mind.

She raises her head to look at him. “I can’t come home _now_ , with you. If mom finds me in my bed tomorrow morning…”

“Then don’t sleep in your bed,” he says, kicking the bike alive with a roar.

And so it is that she waits in the bushes as Jughead goes through the front door, climbs the ladder after he gives her a signal, and slips through the window and into his room. Never has the thrill of entering her own house been greater.

Jughead lets her know that Alice has fallen asleep on the sofa again, so Betty takes the opportunity to slip into the bathroom to freshen up and brush her teeth. She texts Kevin to let him know that she's home, but that she still needs him to cover for her until the morning, and this time he replies. What he sends her makes her pause halfway through slipping on her pyjama shorts.

 

2.57am  
Stay safe

 

She stares at the message, stunned by its implications, half considering sending something snarky in reply. But… she can't deny she finds the thought thrilling. Nerve wracking but intensely appealing. Maybe she'd want to. If Jughead did. Not tonight, she tells herself hurriedly. She’d want to prepare, think it through, but it’s not like she’s waiting for the planets to align or anything. Not tonight, but soon, maybe. Something between her belly and her thighs hums in agreement, and she scrambles to tie the drawstring on her shorts. She wavers for a second in the choice of whether to keep the bra on or off under her tank top, and decides that shapely breasts are currently a higher priority than comfort.

She awkwardly trades places with Jughead and darts into his room while he takes his turn in the bathroom. It feels weird to just be waiting for him to get back, and she doesn't want to find herself accidentally making the bed again, so she gets in it instead.

She pulls the covers up, then immediately scoots them down a little. She turns on her side, propping herself up on her elbow. No, surely that just makes her look like an eager puppy, she thinks, flipping over on her other side, back against the door. Could she get away with lying _on top_ of the covers like this? She wonders briefly if he likes her butt, if it's enough of a selling point for something like that. Then she remembers she had better set an alarm, and in the end, she has no time for arranging herself sexily on the bed, as he walks back in while she's crouched over her phone, mourning the less than five hours of sleep she'll be getting.

She looks up and freezes. He’s wearing boxers and a t-shirt, which makes sense, but also makes her belly surge with nerves and anticipation. But he’s also wearing nothing _else_ , and Betty has to try hard not to show any signs of shock from seeing him without his beanie. _Voluntarily_ without it. His hair is an artful mess, and she wants nothing more than to bury her fingers in it.

“Hey,” she says, stupidly, as if they didn’t just spend the last two hours kissing in the back row at the Bijou.

“Hey,” he says, sitting down on the bed. He runs a hand through his hair, and she wants the hand to be hers. Then he clears his throat. “Look, we don’t have to do anything. When I said you could come back here I wasn’t… Uh, I wasn’t trying to get you into bed or anything.”

“Yet here I am,” Betty says in a light voice. She’s not sure whether he’s trying to provide her with some kind of escape route or if he’s backpedaling.

“What I mean is, we can just sleep. Nothing has to _happen_.”

Betty pulls her legs up against her chest. “Okay,” she says. She studies his face, and finds him looking the same way he has so many times before. An unreadable expression, is what she usually thinks. Guarded, she thinks now.

“But it could,” she goes on, somewhere between a question and a suggestion, her heart fluttering anxiously.

“If you want,” he says, maybe a bit quicker than he means to, because he assaults his hair nervously again. “I mean. Whatever you want.”

_I want to be the one to mess up your hair_ , she thinks irrationally, but she can’t say that. Instead, she lies down on her side, and a moment later, he does too. She kisses him, mainly to show him that whatever does happen, she doesn’t want it to be nothing. Not tonight, but not nothing, she thinks, before briefly wondering whether Polly might have left some condoms behind. When he puts a hand on her hip, tipping her over on her back, it sets off not just a spark of excitement in her, but also a strange compulsion to list in her head the number of things that would need to happen before they’d be here, in Polly’s bed, having honest to god actual sex.

_This would have to go_ , she thinks, sneaking a hand up under his t-shirt. His skin is warm, his back firm and strong, and she rakes her nails softly up it. It earns her a low groan. _He likes it_ , she thinks, dimly aware of his fingers on her chin, gently turning her face aside. _He likes it when I touch him_. She soars with that thought for a brief moment, then chokes back a moan as he kisses her neck, nose buried below her ear.

_Underwear_ , she thinks fervently, her hand slipping down to trail trembling fingers along the lining of his boxers, from the back to the front, until she feels the bristly hairs low on his belly.

“Sh-” He makes a strangled noise, shying away, leaving inches that feel like miles between them.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, pulling her hand away quickly.

“No!” he says quietly and shakes his head. He settles down beside her, then grabs her hand, putting it back on his hip.

He kisses her again and again, reassuring kisses, while his own hand finds its way under her top. When he hesitates to actually touch her, dancing his fingers along the underwire of her bra, she reaches up to put her hand on his, moving it firmly on top of her breast.

“God,” he breathes against her lips.

In the darkness, she allows herself a wicked grin. She doesn’t know which part is the best - that he’s so obviously turned on by her touching him, or by him touching her. Or maybe how all of that makes _her_ feel, she thinks, biting down on her lip as he brushes his thumb across her bra. For a few minutes, he seems to revel in exploring it - tracing the lacy trimming, slipping a finger underneath the strap, gently rubbing his palm across the cup - until Betty becomes impatient.

“Take it off,” she says, arching off the bed to give him access.

Awkwardly, Jughead slips his arms around her, fumbling for the clasp. It takes him a few moments, and when it unhooks they share a little smile. She slips the straps over her shoulders and twists out of them, then guides Jughead’s in pulling the bra down and out from under her top.

“What the hell,” he mutters, looking down at it, amused, before tossing it aside.

She wants to quip about it being a magic trick only girls know how to do, but she’s suddenly shivering from the feeling of soft cloth loose over her breasts, and maybe from the fact that she can tick another point off her list. Then he slides his hand up her chest again, his fingers maddeningly light as they flutter over her nipple. She grabs at his hand, guiding him until the touch is firm enough. It feels overwhelmingly good, and a noise escapes her. Instinctively she wants to tilt her hips towards him, move closer, and that's when she feels it. _Him_.

Jughead goes very still, a bewildered look in his eyes, and for a few moments they stare at each other in the darkness, their quick breaths unnaturally loud.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Why?” she whispers back.

He answers her with a kiss that’s almost desperate, and when she slides her hand over his boxers, he doesn’t flinch like before. He’s hard against her palm, and it lights her up inside, heat blooming in her chest and deep in her belly. She shifts towards him again, hiking her leg up over his, and with sudden, surprising strength, he grabs her and pulls her on top of him. Briefly, she worries about her weight on him, about crushing him, but his hands are firm on her hips, bringing her down and close.

Rocking against him feels ridiculously good, makes her want more of everything. Jughead’s hands roam her haphazardly, as if he doesn't know what to do with them, and yet everywhere they wander, her skin wants more. They brush over her chest, and she leans into the touch, he runs them up her thighs, all too fleetingly. He reaches around to grab her ass, and she grinds against him until he groans so loudly she has to silence him with a kiss.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he mumbles against her lips.

It's only now, when they stop, when she pushes off him and up on her knees, that she feels how badly she's aching down there, too.

“What,” she breathes.

She feels his hand snake its way down her side and into her shorts. He lingers there, on her hip, his thumb on the soft flesh beneath her belly.

“Can I…” he starts.

“Yes,” Betty says.

When he touches her through the cotton of her panties, his fingers are so careful, so hesitant that it’s nearly enough to drive her insane. She scrambles for his hand, almost losing her balance, and presses down on it firmly. She has to bite her lip not to moan, and a strangled whimper still slips out. The corner of his mouth twitches in a smile, and by some unspoken agreement they shift and move until she's on her back with his hand still down her shorts. He traces the edge of her panties, sweeps his fingers over them, and when they brush just past the most sensitive places her breath catches.

“Okay?” he asks quietly.

It’s more than okay. It’s also nowhere near enough, but she nods. He draws circles around her clit, smaller and smaller circles until he’s finally focusing on that sweet spot. For a fleeting moment she feels a bewildering kind of fear. She’s suddenly here, at the point in her life where a boy has a hand down her pants and it feels so easy, so effortless, that she wonders if maybe it’s a dream. Real or not, what he’s doing fills her up with hot, trembling anticipation, and when Jughead presses a kiss to her collarbone she barely registers it.

“Let me know what feels good, okay?” he says, almost pleadingly.

“It’s so good,” she whispers, and he sighs into her hair.

It’s so good, but it's not her own touch, so it’s different and thrilling and unpredictable. It’s so, so good, but she worries that it seems to take forever to get close, her desire building and shying away in waves. But inevitably, one of the waves doesn’t draw back, just swells and swells until she knows that this one will crest. Then she reaches up to fist his hair and brings his face closer to let him kiss her neck. She grabs at his hair, over and over, and when he shifts and she feels him, hard against her thigh, she comes so suddenly that she has to bite back a little scream and push his hand away.

Just like his touch the climax is different, less controlled. As though reeled in by the fluttering thrills she curls up against his chest, breathing hard. It takes her some time to recover and sink back into the mattress, and when she does, Jughead is grinning down at her.

“What?” she manages.

“Nothing,” he says, but the smug smile grows wider. “Just, you seemed to like that.”

“I did,” she admits.

But she can still feel him, firmly pressed into her leg, so it’s not like she’s the only one enjoying herself here. She pulls at his arm, her movements lazy but determined, until he takes the hint and settles on top of her. When she rolls her hips up, his smile fades into something else, a startled kind of excitement.

“And you seem to like this,” she says, doing it again.

“Hah,” he says, a strange mix between a laugh and a gasp.

They kiss for a while, moving together slowly, and when she reaches down to rub him through his boxers, he lifts off her a little to give her room. She can feel how hard he still is, and get some idea of the shape and size of him, and it makes her curious. Curious enough to slip her fingers under that waistband again, and this time he lets her explore. It’s not as weird as she thought it would be, she muses. Maybe it’s that she’s still languid all over, too pleasantly exhausted to worry much, because all she feels is fascination. She pushes his boxers down, easing him out. He’s heavy and warm in her hand, and seems supremely sensitive to her touch. She strokes him, softly, grabs him, trying to remember what _Teen Vogue_ said about handjobs and ‘the grip that’ll make him flip’. Between kisses, Jughead’s breathing is getting a little ragged, and all in all it seems to be going pretty well until something she does makes him suddenly tear himself from her lips to give a sharp hiss.

“Not good?” she says, letting him go.

He shakes his head, snorts and looks away. “Too good,” he says.

That sends a thrill of pride and excitement through her, and she runs her hand firmly over him the same way again, just to try it.

“Shit,” he groans, jerking back a little, propping himself up on his elbows.

“What?” she asks innocently.

He rests his forehead against hers, gives her a little kiss. “If you keep doing that I’m going to make a mess.”

“A mess,” she repeats.

And because there’s something intensely sexy about that thought, she yanks her top up with one hand all while keeping up her ministrations with the other. Jughead glances down at her, makes a sound that might be a curse, and the mess he makes is sudden and hot on her skin, and the feeling is so exhilarating that it’s enough to leave her breathless all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤️❤️The _amazing_ [satelliteinasupernova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/satelliteinasupernova/pseuds/satelliteinasupernova) has blessed this chapter with a wonderful piece of art and she has kindly allowed me to share it here ❤️❤️  
>  Her original Tumblr post can be found [here](http://satelliteinasupernova.tumblr.com/post/173509594249/slowly-but-deliberately-betty-grabs-the-armrest) (along with LOTS more incredible Bughead and Riverdale art).
> 
>  


	17. Daughter of the Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm seeing the light at the end of the tunnel! I can't believe I thought this was going to be a neat little story of about 10-12 chapters, but hopefully it'll wrap in 5 more. Thank you all for reading and commenting and leaving kudos. I cannot believe how well-received this has been so far. I hope I won't let anyone down. 
> 
> An enormous thank you to [nimmieamee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimmieamee/) for her relentless weeding of my Britishism, waging a never-ending war on my commas, and for shouting in all caps at Alice.

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper’s mom._

_On the first night in her house, while Betty was in the kitchen fetching dessert, Alice Cooper made it very clear why I was there, what the rules were, and what the consequences would be if I broke them._

_“I owed your father a favor,” she said, her flinty eyes boring into mine. “And if it’s anything you Southside riffraff will remember, it’s non-binding verbal agreements made twenty years ago.”_

_It was evident she was as unhappy about this arrangement as I was._

_“Say the word and I’m gone,” I said._

_“Cockiness will get you nowhere, junior. Especially not out of here, not when it’s my good name on the line. You’re staying right where you are, keeping your head down, and I’ll make sure you’re fed. That’s the deal, Jughead. Screw this up, though, and I won’t hesitate to drop you like a hot potato. Make one mistake and you’ll be looking at juvie until you’re old enough to join FP in jail. You wouldn’t want to let your old man down like that, would you?”_

_“I don’t give a shit about dad,” I said._

_“He told me you’d say that. And I don’t blame you in the slightest.”_

_That felt rich. Dad was undoubtedly a fuck-up, but he was mine to be bitter about, not hers._

_“I know what your father is,” Alice continued. “What he became. And yet he claims you’re a good kid.”_

_The last two words were laced with so much acid it was a wonder she didn’t choke on them._

_“I’m not a criminal if that’s what you mean,” I said._

_Alice leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowed. “You don’t_ ever _wear the jacket,” she said, holding a finger up. Then she added another finger. “I’m going to assume an underage boy like yourself has no tattoos. Do not prove me wrong.”_

_I could hear Betty walk in, and out of the corner of my eye I could see her stopping in confusion, a tray in her hands._

_“Real cream,” said Alice without looking at her._

_As soon Betty had disappeared again, Alice went on in a low, hurried voice._

_“Any friends you have on the Southside stay on the Southside. FP told me you’re a smart kid, and coming from him that could mean anything, but I trust there’ll be no trouble at school.” She swept her eyes over me with open disapproval. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done about the rags, but at least it’s yet another thing to guarantee Betty won’t be getting any ideas. You wash them yourself. Your sheets, too.”_

_“Yes ma’am,” I said._

_I had absolutely zero intention of staying the night._

 

* * *

 

When the alarm buzzes, Betty very nearly wants to ignore it. Wrapped up in Jughead’s arms, in the warm comfort of his bed, only the thought of her mother looking for her and realizing she’s not at the Keller residence is horrifying enough to make her reluctantly start disentangling herself.

“Why,” Jughead mutters, fumbling for her as she sits up to look for her clothes.

He manages to pull her down again, and in all fairness she doesn’t try very hard to fight it. Especially not when he pushes back her hair to kiss her neck, then leans over to capture her mouth. She worries briefly about morning breath, but since Jughead seems to have no such qualms she quickly gives into kisses that taste sleepy and warm.

“I have to go pretend I’m coming home,” she says after a while.

He sighs, nuzzling at her collarbone. “And then back to bed, right?”

“I’ll try,” she promises.

To her surprise, she meets Alice in the hallway. Her mother is dressed to the nines and holding a briefcase in her gloved hands, and it makes Betty feel like she looks _especially_ like she just rolled out of bed and shuffled down a ladder.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Business with the paper,” says Alice vaguely, and while Betty is certain that’s a lie, this really isn’t the time to start questioning her. “I’ll be back tonight,” her mom goes on. “Oh, and try not to wake Jughead, he worked late last night.”

“Sure, absolutely,” says Betty, barely masking a smile.

Jughead has gone back to sleep when she slips under the covers to cuddle up next to him, and he shifts lazily, pulling her arm across his chest. She lies there contemplating last night, contemplating this, and how easy it seems to plunge into it all. Her body molds itself to his as she drifts off, and the closeness feels effortless, and good, and right.

 

* * *

 

They sleep until midday, when Jughead wakes her up by groaning and stretching and declaring that going more than nine hours without eating when there’s food in the house is an actual crime. Without Alice around to oversee their dietary choices they feast on a brunch of whatever they find in the kitchen; cereal, cheese, yogurt, honeydew melon, bagels, chocolate chip cookies, exclusive cranberry juice, and coffee with plenty of milk.

Afterwards, Betty sits on the kitchen counter, dangling her legs, watching Jughead rummage around in the fridge again.

“Want strawberries?” he asks, holding out a box of them. “Unless Mrs. C is saving them for some special occasion.”

 _Most likely yes_. “I don't think so,” she says.

Even though she’s almost uncomfortably full, she takes a plump, red berry when he offers them to her. After all, she has any number of imaginary romantic scenarios involving strawberries tucked away in her mind that are simply begging to be played out. Jughead, however, seems to genuinely just want something more to eat, because he moves for the fridge again. Quickly, Betty sticks her foot out, hooking it around his hip. He gives her a confused look, but lets her pull him back until he’s between her legs.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says, taking a bite out of the strawberry, watching him watch her do it.

On a whim she lifts it to his mouth, but she doesn’t let him bite it and instead uses it to gently smear juice along his bottom lip. Before he can lick it off she kisses him, tasting the sweet mess. Then his hands are in her hair and his tongue is on hers, and a rush of elation surges in her chest. She craves this something terrible, she realizes. To touch him, and to be touched. They crossed some undefined line last night, and now all she wants is to lean into him, wrap her legs around him and pull him in until they can’t get any closer.

Knowing that they have hours alone and the house to themselves, she can’t seem to stop herself from drifting into those touches, again and again. If Jughead minds he doesn’t let it show - he just lets her have her way with him. He lets her slip her arms around him as he washes up their bowls, lets her thread her fingers through his damp hair when he emerges from the bathroom after a shower, lets her push him down on the bed and then cuddle up next to him. He lets her do all of it with a look of mild bemusement on his face, like he’s not quite sure what he’s signed up for but is enjoying himself all the same.

“We should stay in bed all day,” says Betty, as they lie tangled up on the unmade bed. They’ve kissed so many times that her lips feel raw, and now she's tracing some indistinct pattern on his arm with her fingers.

“We should,” Jughead agrees. “When’s your mom coming home?”

“Tonight.”

Betty isn’t completely sure what that means, but they must have hours still. Jughead shifts on his side, presses a kiss to her forehead and then rubs his chin gently against it.

“Stay in bed all day sounds like a plan,” he says.

But Betty barely hears him, instead focusing on his shoulder where the sleeve of his t-shirt has ridden up a little. Something is peeking out from under there, and she pushes up on her elbow to tug at the cloth with a finger.

“What's this?” she asks, even though she can see very well what it is. A tattoo of a snake; the same snake that's embroidered on the back of his jacket, and on the back of the jacket she still has tucked away in the bottom drawer of her desk.

Jughead doesn’t answer her, but rolls up the sleeve so that she can see the whole thing. Betty shuffles up until she’s half-lying across his chest and inspects it closely. She doesn’t know a lot about tattoos, but this one looks not exactly brand new, and like it probably wasn’t done professionally. The top snake head has a little crown, which seems to detract from the general badassery of having a snake tattoo in the first place.

“When did you get it?” she asks.

“When I joined,” he says.

Her stomach tightens a little. Obviously she knows he’s a Serpent. Only it didn’t seem like he was really a gang member. Not like _that_. She figured he was born into it, and with the way he’s been talking about his dad, she never thought he had _joined_. The word implies a deliberate choice and hints at other things, too. Rituals, initiations, maybe even violence... The tattoo seems to leer at her, at her naivety.

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

 _God_. Fourteen seems an age ago. What was she doing at fourteen? Homework. Making loom bands with Ethel. Playing _Street Fighter IV_ with Archie. She traces the snake from head to head and back again. He hums contentedly at that and runs a hand up her back and into her hair, brushing his fingers gently across the nape of her neck. It’s impossible to resist that touch, just like it’s impossible to imagine Jughead as a hardened thug. Surely there’s more than one type of gang member, she thinks, and rests her head on his chest.

Not long after, Jughead’s phone buzzes over on the desk. With a groan he reluctantly squirms out from under her to go check it.

“It’s Sweet Pea,” he says. “Says he’s got pictures of this Andre if we’re available.”

The ‘we’ is enough to make Betty scramble up, alert and with only the slightest twinge of regret at having to leave the bed after all.

 

* * *

 

Jughead digs out a spare helmet from somewhere inside the truck, and then they’re off on his bike again. It feels even more exciting this time, riding with him in broad daylight towards the Southside. This time they’re not going to that bar, it seems, because Jughead takes her down back roads she’s never seen before until they arrive at what must be the main street this side of the tracks. There’s shops lining it on either side, crowded along the ground floors of the narrow houses. It looks like at least half of what’s for sale is in fact outside on the sidewalks, rickety shelves and baskets displaying fruit and vegetables she’s sure have never graced the Cooper kitchen, sneakers that seem much too cheap for the brands they’re boasting, plastic toys in a multitude of garish colors, huge sacks of rice, sequin-strewn dresses, shawls, Hawaiian shirts and more.

They pull over by one such shop whose display boasts an impressive number of green tea-flavored snacks. Instead of going inside, they walk around to a back entrance where Jughead pounds on the door. After a few moments, Sweet Pea answers it. He’s still intimidatingly tall, but this time he abstains from immediately hurling any sour Northside remarks her way. He and Jughead slam together in a short but tight hug before he turns his eyes on her. They’re wary, but not hostile.

“Betty,” he says, tilting his chin up in a greeting.

“Hey,” she says, and although she absolutely cannot suppress her cheerful smile, she at least resists the urge to stick her hand out for him to shake.

When Sweet Pea steps back to let them in, she feels Jughead sneak his arm around her back, his hand coming to rest gently on her shoulder as they go inside. She wants to melt into that touch, grateful for his support and giddy from the open display of affection. Sweet Pea apparently notices it as well because his eyebrows fly up briefly and then he snickers at them before leading them up a narrow set of stairs to the apartment above the shop out front.

The first thing that strikes Betty is how cramped yet tidy it is. The room they enter seems made almost entirely out of storage space, every available stretch of wall covered with wardrobes or shelves from floor to ceiling. It’s unclear whether it’s a dining room, living room, bed room or all three. The TV stands on a chest of drawers, the sofa looks like it folds out into a bed, and there’s even a small shelf above the doorway into what looks like a tiny kitchen. The shelf is packed with books, stacked in double rows. Crammed into a corner is a fold-out table where a girl of about twelve is sitting, nose in a book and headphones on. Presumably she’s Sweet Pea’s sister, and she glances up at them as they pass, dark eyes flitting over Betty before homing in on Jughead.

“Hey Lu,” says Jughead, nodding at her.

“Hey,” she says in a small voice.

Jughead seems oblivious to the way Lu’s gaze clings to him, and Betty feels a twinge of pity when she dives back into her book, cheeks reddening as Sweet Pea leads them around a corner and up another set of stairs. They reach a landing with two doors, and the one Sweet Pea opens leads into a bedroom filled with more ingenious storage space in addition to a clothes-strewn floor, a cluttered desk and a bunk bed that looks decidedly too small to comfortably fit all of Sweet Pea.

“Have a seat,” he says, clearing some space on the rug with a foot.

After rummaging around on the desk for a moment he joins them on the floor, spreading several black-and-white photos out between them. Betty grabs one. It’s dark and a little blurry, but it’s definitely Andre, coming out of a trailer.

“That’s him,” says Betty. “Mr. Lodge’s man.”

“This is Tall Boy’s trailer,” says Jughead, looking at another photo. “Did you take these?”

Sweet Pea’s eyes flicker to Betty before replying. “Toni did.”

Betty feels a brief flutter of insecurity and wonders if maybe she didn’t want to come here, knowing that Betty would. Jughead, however, simply nods and picks up another picture.

“What’s he _doing_ there?” he says.

“Business with Tall Boy,” says Sweet Pea with a long look at Jughead. “He’s in charge with FP out of the picture. We’ve been staying out of it though, been leaving it to the older boys.”

“Yeah, that’s…that’s probably wise,” Jughead says. He lets out an explosive sigh and rubs at his eyes. “I think we need to recap, tie all these strings together, see what we’ve got.”

He puts the photo he’s holding down on the floor for all of them to see. It’s a close-up of Andre. The collar of his expensive coat is popped, making him look particularly suspicious.

“So this guy started paying Serpents to run his errands when?” he asks.

“A few months ago,” says Sweet Pea with a shrug. “Small things at first, for small money. And then gradually he offered more. In exchange for…” he glances at Betty again.

“No need to get specific,” she says, waving a hand dismissively at him.

Jughead goes on. “And now we know for sure that Andre actually works for or with Hiram Lodge, so we can assume that he was the one footing the bill. The last thing he asked of dad was to torch the Twilight, probably to devalue the land, which lines up nicely with the fact that Lodge Industries is currently buying up half the Southside at a reduced cost.”

“So Hiram framed your dad with a ton of expensive drugs because he refused to do that one thing,” says Betty with a frown. “I mean, in the grand scheme of things, that sounds–”

“–excessive,” say Sweet Pea and Betty as one. Sweet Pea flashes her a wry smile.

“Dad said he’s made a lot of enemies over the years,” says Jughead. “Could have been any of them.”

Sweet Pea pulls a doubtful face. “There was blow worth, like, a hundred large ones in that truck, Jug. That’s risky. It would have been cheaper to just put a hole in his head. Sorry,” he adds when Jughead flinches visibly.

“The drugs weren’t his,” says Jughead stubbornly.

“We’re not saying that,” says Betty. “Just that it’s weird. And there’s also the mystery of who stole it from the Sheriff’s station.”

“Stole it _back,_ most likely,” Sweet Pea says. “Whoever planted them probably _didn’t_ want to waste that money. And I mean, at least we know who supplied it, right? So I did what you asked me and went poking around Ghoulie turf. The guy fronting that whole shitshow right now is called Isaiah.”

“And?” asks Jughead.

“And nothing. Just that he’s the guy to go to if you want something a little stronger than the old four-twenty. Since I’m not overly fond of the thought of dangling by the neck from a streetlight I didn’t hang around to interrogate him. Everyone knows they’ve been trying to push the boundaries onto Serpent territory though. They try to take a corner here, a crossing there, but we’ve always pushed them back. At least FP did.”

“Would these...Ghoulies risk spending that much money to get rid of your dad?” Betty asks Jughead.

“I can see the Ghoulies wanting to get rid of dad, and I can see Hiram Lodge framing him using the Ghoulies and then maybe stealing it back as part of the plan. But if Hiram’s henchman is still doing business with Tall Boy…” Jughead rubs at his temples. “It just doesn't make sense.”

“Unless Tall Boy’s a turncoat,” says Sweet Pea.

The boys exchange looks, and Jughead sighs.

“I guess it’s time for another visit to Keller’s castle,” he says.

“Another thing,” says Sweet Pea with a frown. “Peabody skipped town, and ever since, Tall Boy’s been walking around looking about as happy as a drenched cat.”

“Why, what does he care?” asks Jughead.

“Fangs says they were, you know…” He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, god, say no more,” says Jughead, pulling a disgusted face. “The less I know about the particulars of _that_ snakepit the better.”

“Who’s this?” asks Betty.

“Uh…” says Jughead.

“It’s better if you don’t know,” says Sweet Pea bluntly. “You should tell FP though,” he adds to Jughead.

“I’ll see if I can get there tonight.”

“Hey, did you ever get around to fixing my laptop?” Sweet Pea asks then. “I was hoping to start on an essay for Phillips…”

Jughead screws his eyes shut for a second and curses under his breath. “Yeah, I did. I forgot to bring it though. Sorry Sweets.”

“No biggie, I can swing by and pick it up later.” He looks at Betty. “Or now? Whatever’s best for you guys.”

Jughead looks mildly uncomfortable at that prospect and starts fiddling with the photographs, shuffling them into a pile nervously. Betty’s not sure what exactly he’s worried about. That she won’t want him to a bring a friend over? She hates the thought of that, and she hates that Sweet Pea might be thinking the same thing.

“I don’t know,” says Jughead. “Maybe I could just–”

“Of course,” Betty interrupts him and get to her feet. “We’ll go get it now.”

“Your mom…” Jughead says in an urgent whisper as he trails after her down the stairs.

 _Alice_. Betty hadn’t considered that, and as soon as she _does_ consider it she feels a wave of irritation that they’re always walking around on eggshells because of her. A normal mom wouldn’t mind a friend dropping by to pick up a laptop. Jughead, of course, already knows just how not-normal she is.

“It’s fine,” she says, glancing at her phone. “It’s not even three o’clock. We’ve got time.”

Sweet Pea also owns a bike, or at least has one at his disposal. It looks even older than Jughead’s, but it’s somehow in better condition, making Betty suspect he’s a lot better with bikes than he is with computers. He follows them to the Northside wearing his Serpent jacket, and Betty can’t help but wince a little when she spots their neighbor from across the street walking her dog, making saucer eyes at them as they pass.

“Welcome to Cooper Manor,” says Jughead dryly once they’ve pulled up in the empty driveway.

Sweet Pea snorts and squints up at the house. “Are we allowed in through the front door or do we use the kitchen entrance?”

“Oh, please,” mutters Betty and makes her way past them, feeling oddly embarrassed at the relative abundance of her home. She’s never thought of their house as very grand, but now she realizes you could probably fit three of Sweet Pea’s in it.

She lets them in, suppressing a sigh as they continue to quip about ensuite bedrooms and private elevators while they kick off their shoes. Then her eyes fall on Alice’s briefcase on the bench next to the door, and her body seizes up in panic while her brain goes into overdrive.

 _Shit, shit, shit_. “Guys,” she hisses, thrusting her arm out at them to be quiet, but it’s too late.

“Elizabeth,” says her mother, stepping out from the dining room. She’s wearing yellow rubber gloves and holding a menacing-looking silver fork, as though she’d been preparing to skewer something. Her gaze glides past Betty’s shoulder, landing on Jughead and Sweet Pea. “ _Guys_ ,” she greets them frostily.

“But where’s the car?” Betty winces, her brain stopping its frantic racing for a moment to latch on to this particular mystery. The driveway had been empty, they should have been safe.

“Where’s the _car_?” Alice parrots incredulously. Then she points the fork at Sweet Pea. “You, Hightower, take off that jacket _right now_ and don’t you dare as much as _think_ of putting it back on until you’re at least half a mile south of the tracks. Where I expect you to be within seven minutes or less.”

“But my laptop is–” Sweet Pea starts, but Alice ignores him.

“Jughead, in the kitchen,” she says, her voice rising to drown out Sweet Pea’s protests. “Betty, go to your room. I’ll deal with you later.”

“Mom!” Betty says desperately.

“ _Now_.”

Betty scurries up the stairs, cheeks burning and heart pounding in her throat. Instead of actually going to her room she hovers out of sight on the landing, straining her ears to hear what’s going on downstairs, but all she can make out are indistinct apologetic sounds from Jughead. A short while later she can hear steps on the stairs that are definitely not her mom’s, and then Sweet Pea comes into view. He’s holding a Whole Foods carrier bag that seems stuffed to the bursting point with his Serpent jacket.

“Where’s Jughead’s room?” he asks.

Apparently he’s been given permission to retrieve his laptop, so Betty shows him inside and gets the computer from the desk.

“Sorry about mom,” she says, handing it to him and forcing a smile.

“Blonde Gothel?” he says, managing to somehow cram the laptop into the bag next to his jacket. “Yeah, Jughead told me about her but I thought he was exaggerating. Guess I was wrong.”

Betty cringes and wonders if he came up with that nickname on the spot or if it’s something else Jughead told him. And if Alice is Gothel, what does that make Betty? Rapunzel, trapped in her tower?

It suddenly hits her, all at once. Her ridiculous curfews, that she never has a second helping when Alice is watching, how she second-guesses her outfits to dodge critical comments, how she schemes with Kevin just to be able to go to a party.

How she hasn’t asked Ronnie around for months because she’s worried her mom will say something mean. _Knows_ she would say something mean.

How her first instinct when she falls in love is to keep it a secret.

“You okay?”

Betty snaps her head up to look at Sweet Pea. He’s frowning uncertainly, and his gaze flickers down to her hands. She unclenches her fists and takes a breath, but the reflexive _I’m fine_ dies on her lips.

“No,” she says decisively, and it feels so liberating and good that she immediately reverts her statement. “Actually, yes. Excuse me,” she adds, and strides past him and out of the room.

She pauses on the landing, then retraces her steps to her mom’s door. Betty’s palms have certainly seen worse, but there’s a little bit of blood, so she drags her hands down the door, leaving faint red streaks behind. Then she heads for the stairs again, shouldering past Sweet Pea who is staring at her, bewildered.

“Okay…” he says slowly, but she’s already on her way downstairs.

Jughead and Alice are in the dining room, and they fall quiet when Betty stomps around the corner. Although she’s humming with quiet rage, she has to stop for a second to take in the scene. Her mother is still wearing the rubber gloves, and the table is cluttered with what looks like every single piece of silverware in the house. There’s cutlery, candlesticks, and even a couple of goblets, all lying in complete disarray. On the far end of the table she can glimpse a bottle of silver polish and a rag.

“Why are you...?” she asks, then shakes her head. “Nevermind. What’s going on? Why can’t Jughead bring a friend over?”

“What’s going on?” Alice scoffs.

“Stop repeating my questions and say something that means something!”

It’s almost a shout, and in the silence that follows she can hear Alice gasp softly. Out of the corner of her eye Betty can see Jughead inching down in his seat as though hoping he might be able to slide under the table and out of sight.

“I suppose we’ll just have to do this the other way around,” says Alice calmly. “Jughead, upstairs. We’ll continue this conversation later.”

He obediently starts getting up without a word.

“No!” says Betty. Her voice is trembling a little, but not with fear. “Just say what you want to say instead of sending us to our rooms like we’re five-year-olds!”

“Betty, it’s okay, honestly,” says Jughead, looking like he’d much rather not be in the room for this.

“You want to know why Jughead can’t bring his _friend_ over?” Alice says, ignoring him. “Did you not see that jacket? That _friend_ is a criminal!”

“You don’t know him!”

“He is a gang member, Elizabeth! The Southside Serpents are a violent, drug-dealing, criminal rabble of lowlife scum and I will not have it. Not in my house. And I most definitely will not have them sink their venomous teeth into my daughter and ruin her.”

Betty twists her face up in disbelief. “ _Ruin_?”

She thinks about the Serpent jacket in her drawer, and Alice’s pieces on the Southside in the _Register_. About how her mom somehow knows FP Jones, and about Jughead’s snake tattoo, and the amount of hypocrisy that it must take to stand there and spout all this nonsense.

“It won’t happen again, Mrs. Cooper,” Jughead mumbles.

“That goes without saying,” says Alice. “And let me be clear that there will be no more second chances–”

Betty scoffs. “What, Southsiders can’t have friends now? Why don’t you tell me why you _really_ care about that jacket, mom.”

“Did I not make myself clear?” Alice says in a low voice, face paling. Then she glances at Jughead. “Perhaps this was a mistake. I should have known better than to let a Jones into my daughter's life. I thought I raised you to be smarter than this, Betty, and yet after less than a month with FP’s son under our roof, you’re openly consorting with criminals.”

Betty feels like punching something, the frustration crackling and hissing like electricity through her limbs. Then Jughead catches her eye, and she swallows her rage for a second. He looks like he’s begging her to stop, like she’s only making things worse. And isn’t that just always the way with Alice? Somehow, she twists and turns Betty’s words, latching on to the small things and overlooking the bigger picture until the argument doesn’t make sense anymore and she’s won by default. And right now, Jughead is getting caught in the crossfire.

“Weatherbee took me off the school paper,” she says, hoping this random, possibly to Alice horrific fact might distract her mother. Since there’s no immediate reaction other than a stunned silence, she goes on. “And Cheryl kicked me off the Vixens, and I keep forgetting to do my homework, and–”

Alice stares at her in disbelief. “ _What_? Because of–” She looks to Jughead again.

Betty whines in frustration. “No, of course not because of _Jughead_!”

Jughead starts shuffling towards the stairs again. “I’m just gonna…” he says, pointing indistinctly to the second floor. This time, no one stops him.

“What exactly are you hoping to achieve here?” Alice asks once Jughead has disappeared upstairs.

Betty doesn’t know. She really doesn’t, but she does know that she’s angrier than she’s been in a long, long time, and that the anger is filling her chest with a lightness that makes her feel almost weightless.

Arms still trembling a little, she holds out her hands, palms turned up. The cuts are still raw, and at the sight of them, Alice glances at the ceiling tiredly.

“No need to be dramatic, Betty,” she says tersely.

Betty makes herself ignore that. “Can we talk about this, mom? Or can we at least talk about why we don’t talk about it?”

“Fine!” says Alice, throwing her hands in the air. “I don’t know why you’re still doing it. It’s a filthy, childish habit, and you need to stop.”

“But I _can’t_ stop!”

“Of course you can, I stopped when I was thirteen!” Alice snaps. They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then her mom haphazardly picks up a candlestick from the table and starts scrutinizing it.

“Are we done?” Betty asks quietly.

“You’re grounded,” says Alice, grabbing the rag to rub furiously at the candlestick.

“No,” says Betty.

Somehow, she has now transcended rage. All those shaky, unpredictable emotions have melted together to form a glowing, steely hard determination.

“No, I’m not,” she says.

Alice slams the candlestick down on the table. “Elizabeth!”

“No,” says Betty again, firmly. “I’m going to be eighteen in two months, mom, but I am done being your child today.”

Her mother steps around the table, a wild look in her eyes. “Do I need to remind you that you’re in my house, eating the food that I put on your table, wearing the clothes that–”

“So kick me out!” says Betty. “If that’s what you want.”

Alice’s eyes are glistening now, her whole face a mask of wounded despair. “What happened to my daughter?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

That light feeling in Betty’s chest is becoming painful, making it hard to breathe. It’s strange how she can be jubilant and close to crying all at once, and she has a feeling the tears she’s holding back are ten times as real as the ones rolling down Alice’s cheeks right now.

“I’m right here, mom,” she says.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, Betty collapses on her bed and sleeps the dark, dreamless sleep of exhaustion. When she wakes up, her room is lit by the last golden rays of sunset, and her phone is buzzing under the pillow. It’s Jughead and she sits up to answer it.

“Hey,” she says sleepily. “Where are you?”

_“In my room.”_

Betty rubs at her forehead, remembering the scenes that played out earlier that afternoon. “I’m so sorry about my mom, Jughead…” she begins.

 _“It’s okay,”_ he says quickly. _“You’re not her.”_

“Are you grounded?” she asks desperately. “She tried to ground me and I said no. Oh, god.”

_“Miraculously enough, no. In fact, I went to see dad in jail with Sweet Pea.”_

Immediately she can feel her head clearing as she latches onto this, their shared purpose with welcome relief. “What did he say?”

Jughead sighs. _“He told us to leave it be, to not get involved. But it was clear he had no idea what Tall Boy was doing, running around with Hiram’s man. I can tell something stinks to high heaven down in Sunnyside, and if we don’t do something, it’s either going to be gobbled up by Ghoulies or bulldozed down by Lodge Industries.”_

“Of course we’ll do something.”

_“But what? Dad won’t talk, the drugs are probably with the Ghoulies… God, what I wouldn’t give for an hour alone in Hiram Lodge’s office.”_

“Maybe you can’t have it,” says Betty thoughtfully. “But we know someone who can.”

 _“Veronica?”_ he snorts. _“Yeah, because she’ll totally spy on her own dad if we just ask her nicely.”_

“Honestly, with the weird power games that family is alway playing? Maybe. Let me try it, okay? Otherwise I’ll find some way to sneak you in,” she adds, only half joking.

They fall quiet for a second.

 _“Speaking of sneaking,”_ says Jughead lightly.

“Yeah?”

_“Can I come over?”_

He doesn’t even bother with the window route, and in less than a minute after they hang up, they’re on her bed, kissing themselves breathless. The last thing Betty wants to think about is her mom, but she’s there all the same, a threatening presence on the edge of things. She’s not worried for herself though.

“Do you think mom would kick you out if she knew about us?” she asks between kisses.

“Probably,” he says, and then kisses her again. “I figured it’s worth the risk.”

“Is it though?” She doesn’t even know what the consequences would be. Another foster home for him, probably.

Jughead shuffles up on his elbows. “Do you want to stop?” he asks.

“No,” she says immediately, running her hand up his arm, urging him down again.

“Thank god,” he says, pressing a kiss to her jaw and easing a hand up under her top.

This time, when that hand wanders down, he doesn’t stop at her panties to touch her. Her eyes flutter shut as he explores her, and she lets out a stuttering breath when he parts her with a finger. When he flashes her that smug smile, she crushes her lips to his, thinking faintly that she has more than one thing to discuss with Veronica.


	18. The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special super thanks to [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily) and [nimmieamee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimmieamee/pseuds/nimmieamee) for being unrelenting cheerleaders and magnificent beta readers.

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper and the one thing I didn’t want to think about._

_The why._

_Joaquin had been dating Kevin Keller for a few months when I met Betty. Kevin’s visits to the Southside were frequent but steeped in subterfuge. They mostly hung out in Joaquin’s trailer, only occasionally venturing out with the rest of us. Joaquin crossing the tracks to the Northside was at best a bi-weekly occurrence, and only ever on Kevin’s terms._

_I mean, I get it. His dad’s the sheriff, his boyfriend’s more or less a criminal. But I somehow doubt that’s all there is to it._

_Toni had a Northside fling towards the end of our Sophomore year. It didn’t last long enough for me to meet her, and when Toni kicked her bag inside the projection booth after the girl had ghosted her, she was livid._

_“A test ride,” she spat. “An edgy lab rat. That’s all I was. Was she into girls? Maybe. Was she into the thrill of dating someone from the wrong side of the tracks just to piss her parents off?_ Definitely _. Do me a favor and don’t wake me until after the fucking revolution, okay?”_

_And with that, she collapsed on my bed in her clothes, leaving me to huddle under a blanket and attempt sleeping while sitting up at the table. Eventually, I gave up and wormed my way down into the narrow bed, head at the foot end. When Toni turned in her sleep to hug my legs, I thought: at least we’re two of a kind._

_And a year later, as I moved from being a Joaquin to Betty’s Kevin and into the Northside light, the question of why was always lurking in the shadows._

 

* * *

 

Betty hasn’t been to see the school nurse since old Sister Payne - a nun turned nurse - retired, and it seems like the new addition to the staff has a slightly different approach to her high school clientele.

The waiting room to Ms. Stonewall’s office has bowls of condoms. _Bowls_. Like a complimentary buffet of rubber pick n’ mix. Betty takes one, fumbles with the zipper to her bag, then quickly tucks the little plastic packet inside a concealed pocket.

“Are you kidding me?” says Kevin before grabbing a handful and shoving them in her bag. After a couple of seconds he takes another few and pockets them.

“Kevin, oh my god,” says Betty under her breath.

“Better safe than Polly,” says Veronica.

“ _What?_ ” Betty hisses.

“What?” says Ronnie.

“What did you just say?”

Veronica frowns at her. “Better...safe than sorry?” she says slowly.

“Oh my god,” says Betty again, rubbing at her temples while wondering if she’s starting to lose it completely. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

She really only asked Veronica along for moral support, but like the hot goss bloodhound he is, Kevin understood what was going on as soon as the words “school nurse” were uttered during Biology that morning. Now the pair of them are peppering her with advice and encouragement as they wait for her lunchtime appointment.

“I’m sure he’ll be a gentleman,” says Kevin. “And since he’s a seventeen-year-old made of flesh and blood, I can almost guarantee that even if it _is_ painful, it won’t be for very long.”

“It doesn’t have to be painful,” says Veronica. “And remember, sex isn’t just penetration.”

“Mm-hm,” says Betty faintly. The thought of sex that _isn’t_ penetration is somehow even more daunting than contemplating the regular kind.

“I wouldn’t say hand jobs necessarily count though,” says Kevin critically. “That’s basically just masturbation by proxy.”

“Hmm, maybe,” says Veronica.

“Glad we all agree I’m still a virgin,” says Betty miserably.

“Oooh,” coo Kevin and Veronica as one.

“That’s _good_ ,” says Veronica, clasping her hands together as though all of this is perfectly adorable. “Take your time, explore, find your dynamic.”

“Or just go for it,” says Kevin. “Practice makes perfect, et cetera.”

But friendly, sex-positive advice wasn’t the only thing Betty asked Veronica along for. The photographs of Andre are securely strapped inside a folder in her bag, and since Kevin doesn’t know the extent of Hiram’s possible involvement yet, she’s getting desperate for a moment alone with Veronica.

“Kevin, would you mind if I talked to just Ronnie for a sec?” she asks.

“Of course not!” he says, getting to his feet quickly before giving the girls a polite little bow. “I know from experience that trial and error isn’t always the best approach, and thus respect the need for peer mentoring between the vaginally inclined.”

“Thanks,” says Betty.

“I love you, Kevin, but please never say ‘vaginally’ again,” says Veronica, scrunching her nose up.

“I’m sure the opportunities won’t exactly abound,” Kevin says over his shoulder. “See you in Euro History, Betts.”

Once they’re alone, Veronica crosses her legs and looks at Betty expectantly. Betty fumbles for words for a few seconds.

“Fire away,” says Veronica, patting her on the knee. “No question is too big or small.”

_Ah_. Veronica obviously also thinks this is going to be about sex. _Well, why not?_ Betty thinks. After all, she wanted to talk about both.

“What’s it like?” she blurts out.

“What, you mean in general? Betty, my sweet summer child. When it comes to the not-so-subtle art of lovemaking, there _is_ no general.”

“Your first time then?” Betty suggests.

Veronica takes a deep breath and adjusts the purse in her lap.

“Trust me, it won’t be like my first time,” she says grimly.

“Oh… You don’t have to tell me,” says Betty quickly.

“It’s fine,” says Veronica evenly. “I was fourteen and a half and he was older. A Browning boy so not _that_ much older, mind you. Basically, I wanted to get it over with. And I was drunk. And angry with daddy. Or mom. Or both, I can’t remember.”

“Ronnie, I’m sorry,” says Betty, grabbing her hand.

“It was one time, B,” she says with an honest smile. “It doesn’t really matter if it was the first or second or fifth. It was one time, and it was bad. The second time, incidentally, was a-ma-zing. Not with the same guy,” she adds firmly.

Betty looks at the clock above the waiting room door, insides squirming uncomfortably, and then her eyes fall on the poster on the wall opposite them. It shows a cross section of the male and female reproductive organs, which isn’t helpful at all. She’s studied the ones in the Biology books in minute detail, and as weirdly fascinated as she was by them when she first saw them years ago, the same thing that struck her then strikes her now. That even a flaccid (she cringes at the mere thought of the word) penis (cringe again) appears about ten times thicker than the teeny tiny straw-like tube it’s going inside. Babies come out of there, she tells herself sternly. Logic, not to mention billions of women before her, dictates that her completely normal body will be able to do this completely normal thing. And yet the doubts linger.

“What if I can’t do it?” she says, voicing her irrational thoughts.

“Can’t or don’t want to?” asks Veronica.

“Either! Both!”

“Anything you don’t want to do, you don’t do, obviously. And a good rule of thumb is that the more you want to, the easier it is, if you know what I mean.”

Betty knows. And judging by the state of her panties last night, Jughead is more than capable of making sure she’s prepared.

“Personally, I recommend oral before a first time with any guy,” Veronica goes on.

A little noise escapes Betty, but she masks it with a cough. “Yeah?” she manages.

“ _So_ many advantages,” says Veronica, flinging her hand out for emphasis. “The main one being that you’re sure he likes going down on you, which is honestly a huge deal breaker.”

Betty nods attentively, but secretly she’s definitely more afraid of Jughead getting his face anywhere close enough to smell her _there_ than of any amount of first time pain.

“Now, as for positions that are both comfortable and O-friendly...” Veronica starts in a matter-of-fact voice.

“I think I’ll figure it out, V,” says Betty hurriedly. “I actually wanted to talk about something else as well…”

She slides the folder out from her bag and hands it silently to Veronica, who opens it, frowning as she flips through the photos.

“What exactly am I supposed to do with these?” she asks, her voice suddenly frosty.

“That’s Andre, right?” says Betty carefully. “He’s still doing some business with Southsiders. Unsavory Southsiders.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Excuse me?” says Betty sharply.

“I’m joking, B,” says Ronnie, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure your Mr. Pretty-in-plaid is the exception to the rule. But seriously, I don't understand what you’re asking here. There’s probably any number of reasons for Andre to visit the trailer park. The evictions start in two weeks, after all.”

“ _Evictions?_ ”

“ _Temporary_ evictions. Like I said, daddy will offer upgraded housing at a completely reasonable price...”

Betty has a feeling she’s heard these exact same words before, as though Veronica is becoming some broken record, repeating her father’s words in what Betty can only hope is misguided trust. Suppressing an impatient sigh, she forces herself to smile.

“Look, Ronnie, Jughead and I just have a lot of questions about this. Maybe we could come over some day…”

“Your mom is waging war on daddy’s business in the _Register_ ,” says Veronica, handing the folder back to Betty. “Right now is not a good time.”

“He wouldn’t have to be at home,” Betty says innocently.

At that, Veronica cocks her head suspiciously. “What are you suggesting, Betty? That I spy on my own father? That I let you and _Jughead Jones_ snoop around in his office?”

Betty shrugs and decides to apply a touch of puppy eyed pressure. “I mean, if he’s got nothing to hide…”

Veronica huffs, blinking at her in disbelief, and just as Betty starts mentally backpedaling, Ms. Stonewall comes to the rescue by opening the door and calling her name.

“Elizabeth Cooper?”

“Betty,” says Betty, practically jumping out of her seat. “Talk later, V?”

Ms. Stonewall looks to be at least forty years younger than her predecessor, not to mention like she’s possibly _centuries_ ahead of Sister Payne in other respects. She’s sporting glasses, a daring undercut and a small Venus sign tattoo below her ear, and if the waiting room was risque, the office is certainly no better.

On a corkboard Betty spots a flyer where a stock photo of a couple of smiling teenagers has been fitted with speech bubbles. ‘What’s the difference between love and herpes?’ says the first one, and the other answers: ‘Herpes lasts forever.’ Betty looks away uncomfortably, only to have her eyes land on an actual dildo next to Ms. Stonewall’s computer. It's huge. And hot pink.

“What can I do for you Betty?” says Ms. Stonewall.

Betty snaps her gaze from the pink monstrosity on the desk with a feeling that her cheeks are rapidly approaching a similar color. “I, um…”

“Chlamydia?” asks Stonewall with a sigh and turns to her computer.

“What?” says Betty, confused.

But the nurse has already brought an information page on chlamydia up on the screen. “Sister Payne certainly made sure I had my work cut out for me. Leaving three hundred high school kids unchecked and relying on vague discussions about abstinence? The situation was completely out of control when I got here. Why d’you think I put the condoms out?” She pushes her glasses up and squints at the screen. “You’ll have to turn to your family practitioner for antibiotics but I can print this out for you…”

“I don’t have chlamydia,” says Betty, finally finding her voice.

Ms. Stonewall turns back to her. “Are you sure?” she says with a suspicious frown.

“Absolutely positive. As in, I’m sure,” she hurries to add. She looks down at her lap. “In fact, I think I’m about to, you know, _debut_.”

Stonewall gives her a sympathetic look. “Honey, this ain’t Austenland, you can say sex, okay?”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “So, I wanted to talk about contraception.”

“Will said sex involve a penis?” asks Ms. Stonewall in a perfunctory voice.

“Uh… Yes.” _This is actually happening_ , she thinks, slightly dazed. She's with the school nurse, talking about a - _it's okay, it's just a word_ \- _penis_ that may or may not...

Then, to Betty’s absolute horror, her train of thought is interrupted when Stonewall turns around to retrieve the pink dildo. With a decisive plop, she puts it down in front of Betty. It sticks to the desk with the help of a suction cup, quivering slightly where it stands.

“Meet Richard,” says the nurse, leaving Betty to draw her own conclusions about any possible nicknames. She opens a drawer and slaps a packet of condoms down next to it. “Time to practice!”

“I actually helped myself to one or two in the waiting room, so…” says Betty, patting her bag.

“Excellent, but as far as I know they still don’t make them self-rolling. _So_.” Stonewall waves her hand at the dildo with a flourish.

Betty opens the packet of condoms and takes one out. She tugs carefully at the wrapper until it rips, remembering some random words of advice from Polly not to tear the rubber when opening it. The condom that slides out seems flimsy and smells vaguely like artificial banana.

“What I actually came for was the pill,” says Betty, placing the condom on the tip of the dildo and pushing it down. For some reason, the rolling isn’t going as smoothly as she anticipated.

“Other way around,” says Stonewall, grabbing the condom to show her. “Like a little hat. A beanie! See?”

_A beanie_. “I see,” says Betty in a strangled voice, starting over. This time, the only mishap is that the dildo comes unstuck and flops over on its side.

“That won’t happen with an actual penis,” Ms. Stonewall assures her. “Hopefully.”

“I've done some research,” says Betty, pushing the now condom-clad sex toy into place on the desk again. “And I was thinking about trying Yasmin...”

“Planned Parenthood,” says Ms. Stonewall quietly, sliding a business card across to her.

“I'm sorry?”

Stonewall leans in conspiratorially. “You're free to take as many Trojans as you can carry, Betty, but I can't give you prescription meds. If you don’t want your doctor to know, Planned Parenthood will help you. They're over on the Southside.” She taps the address on the card.

“Thanks,” says Betty, picking the card up, still in a daze.

“And make sure you use those,” says Stonewall, nodding at the condoms. “I had a guy in here the other week who thought he had an eye infection. Ha! Eye infection! Chlamydia, the lot of them.”

“Wow,” says Betty, wondering vaguely what a guy would have to do to contract an STD in the eye. Half a second later she realizes she knows _exactly_ what, and sends a brief prayer that Kevin wasn’t involved.

“Anything else I can do for you today, Betty?” asks the nurse.

Betty gathers her bag up and then hesitates. “Actually there is one thing.” She takes a deep breath and then another one. Then she dives right in. “I think I need to talk to someone. Not about sex. About lots of stuff. Just, you know, someone who isn’t a friend, or...” She can’t bring herself to say _mom_.

Stonewall nods slowly, suddenly serious. “Absolutely,” she says.

 

* * *

 

Betty walks out of the nurse’s office with an additional packet of condoms, an appointment in two weeks’ time and a hint of that fluttery, achey lightness in her chest. Also, emotional rollercoaster aside, she realizes she's starving. When she pulls her phone out to check if she's got time to grab lunch before fourth period, she notices two missed texts from Jughead.

 

11.47am  
Wanna grab lunch?

 

12.14pm  
I’m in the caf if you see this before 4th

 

The last one was twenty minutes ago, but she tucks the condoms away in her bag and hurries towards the cafeteria while typing out a reply. Only half-looking at where she’s walking, she rounds a corner and slams right into the one person she’d been hoping to avoid today.

“Woah, watch we’re you’re going!” says Reggie. He holds his hands up. “And for the record, _you_ walked into me, so no crying wolf, Cooper.” Then he gives her a cold, malicious grin. “Or is this one of those days when you _do_ want to bump into me?”

“It’s _never_ one of those days,” says Betty, moving to push past him.

“Oh?” he says, stepping smoothly into her way. “Because honestly it’s been like...you kiss me at Ronnie’s party, then ignore me for a week. Then the next time we even talk, you’re all damsel-in-distress trying to hide from Cheryl, begging me for a ride...”

Betty scoffs. “Really, Reggie?”

“...and then all of a sudden you’re playing hard to get again.”

“You’re delusional,” she says in a low voice.

“Betty? What’s going on?” someone calls out, and Betty glances over Reggie’s shoulder.

It’s Jughead, coming down the corridor towards them. As Reggie turns around to face him with an annoyed scowl, Betty takes the opportunity to slip away, a brief surge of relief washing over her. But then she notices Jughead’s set jaw, his determined frown, and hurries over to him.

“Let’s just go,” she says, grabbing his arm to steer him away.

But Jughead stays where he is, drawing himself up as Reggie approaches. Even though they’re of a height, Reggie feels dangerously imposing, built like a tank and burly-looking in his Bulldog jacket.

“Are you _still_ mentoring this weasel dick?” he asks Betty. Then he looks at Jughead. “Still can’t find your way around the place? Fried your brain with J-J like everyone else on the Southside, huh?”

Jughead snorts. “That’s rich coming from you, Mantle, all souped up on protein shakes and steroids. But I guess you didn’t have a brain to worry about in the first place.”

“He’s not worth it,” says Betty, tugging hard at Jughead’s arm.

Reggie turns to Betty with a shocked frown.

“What, and Avril Lavigne here _is_? Betty, don’t tell me you’re _with_ this dude? That you're letting _him_ … God, you are, aren’t you?” He makes a gagging noise. “Jesus, what is _wrong_ with you?”

Suddenly, Betty isn’t remotely interested in turning the other cheek. She lets go of Jughead and curls her hand into a fist, but this time she’s not doing it to rein in the anger that’s rising in her chest. She does it intending to strike Reggie with everything she’s got, but before she can throw that punch, Jughead grabs a hold of her and pulls her back. Reggie’s hooting something, but she can’t make out the words over the whooshing in her ears. She tries to shake Jughead off, but he’s stronger than he looks, and - regrettably - definitely stronger than her.

Their three-way standoff comes to an abrupt end when Weatherbee’s assistant, Ms. Carter, turns the corner and freezes at the sight of them. Reggie glances over his shoulder and stops mid-insult, and Betty stiffens before slowly relaxing in Jughead’s grip as Ms. Carter regards them suspiciously.

“Miss Cooper, what’s going on here?” she asks, clearly judging Betty the one least likely to be at fault.

“Nothing, Ms. Carter,” Betty manages, willing her voice to sound as normal as possible. “Just a minor disagreement, that’s all.”

She glares warningly at Reggie, who reluctantly takes a step back.

“Yeah, nothing,” he says, before ducking his head down and walking off down the corridor.

Ms. Carter looks long and hard after him, and then turns back to Betty and Jughead.

“Forsythe Jones,” she says, eyes narrowed. “Are you bothering Miss Cooper?”

“ _What?_ ” he asks incredulously.

“No,” says Betty firmly, then fumbles behind her for Jughead’s hand. She squeezes it quickly.  “Quite the opposite, Ms. Carter.”

Ms. Carter shakes her head, muttering something inaudible as she hurries on towards the principal’s office. After a quick glance around to make sure they’re alone, Betty turns to Jughead and steals a kiss.

“Hey,” she says, and she can’t help but reach out for him again. She grabs one hand, then the other, even if they risk being seen. “Sorry about missing lunch. And about...that.”

Jughead runs his thumbs gently over her fingers. “Yeah, what _was_ that about? What the hell is his problem?”

“Reggie?” Betty lets out an explosive sigh. “Ego the size of a midwestern state and as frail as spun sugar. He just can’t take no for an answer, let alone imagine a world where he isn’t everyone’s first, second _and_ third choice.”

Jughead looks at her with a curious smirk. “You were ready to beat the crap out of him, weren’t you?”

Betty’s bottom lip pulls down in a grimace that says ‘whoops’. “And…” she says slowly, avoiding his gaze. “I guess he knows now. About us.”

Saying it makes her heart flutter anxiously, not so much because she’s worried about Reggie knowing, but because it feels like a step towards defining the _us_. But when she looks back at him, Jughead is still smiling lopsidedly.

“I guess so,” he says, hiking an eyebrow up.

He lets go of her hands, and for a brief moment her stomach drops in disappointment before she realizes he’s reaching up to cup her face, gently tilting her head back to kiss her. His lips are soft but decisive, and she can feel them saying _I don’t care, I don’t care who knows_ , and it makes her not want to care either, so she kisses him back like she doesn’t. Somewhere nearby, a classroom door opens, and Betty is vaguely aware of people passing behind them, their giggles and inquisitive murmurs filtering through to their little bubble. She can feel Jughead’s lips tightening in a grin as they keep at it. When she grabs at his hoodie for good measure he snorts softly, but he also nips playfully at her lip and slides a hand down her side to pull her hip closer.

Not until the corridor is empty again do they break apart, Jughead looking like a cat in a creamery and Betty feeling flushed and giddy. Then the magic is dispelled by an audible rumble from Betty’s belly.

“Sorry,” she says, hugging her stomach in the futile hope of calming it. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

Jughead glances at a clock on the wall. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before fourth,” he says. “Let’s go grab something.”

He reaches for her hand, and she takes it without thinking. As they start walking she adjusts her grip to interlock their fingers, and the reassuring squeeze he gives her hand makes her tingle happily all over. They pass Midge Klump on their way into the cafeteria, her mouth dropping open in shock as she twists her head around to gape at them, but right now, Betty doesn’t want to consider the implications of this level of PDA. She’s much too busy enjoying herself, and only reluctantly lets go of Jughead’s hand to pick up a tray.

“Didn’t you eat earlier?” she asks when he helps himself to a chicken fajita wrap.

“Yeah. Emphasis on earlier.”

In the time it takes Betty to eat a brie and salami sandwich washed down with water, Jughead devours his wrap, two oatmeal and raisin cookies (“I thought they were chocolate chips - the ultimate betrayal”), Betty's apple and a large soda, the last of which he slurps on their way out from the canteen.

“We’re going to be late,” Jughead observes once they’re in the corridor.

He’s not wrong. Stragglers are scurrying towards their classrooms, but just as Betty is about to break into a jog herself, she notices two people who don’t seem to be in much of a hurry. Tina Patel and Ginger Lopez, standing by a row of lockers holding a large cardboard box between them. When Tina spots Betty, she glances over at Ginger and says something, and the two of them start awkwardly shuffling down the hallway with the box.

“What are they doing?” Betty says in a hushed voice.

“Huh?” Jughead follows her gaze. “Who are they?”

“Cheryl’s drones.”

Betty instantly becomes suspicious. Why aren’t they in class, and where’s Cheryl? Seeing the pair of them actually doing something without their fearsome leader pulling them along on a tight leash is like seeing a headless golem, arms and legs still moving but without a clear aim or purpose. Suddenly Ginger trips, tipping the box over slightly with a squeak, making a bunch of yellow paper slips slide out to land on the floor. The small, card-like papers remind her of something…

“Are those voting ballots?” she mutters, half to herself, half to Jughead.

“I don’t vote, remember,” he says.

Betty ignores him and walks with resolute steps towards Tina and Ginger who are scrambling to gather up the scattered pieces of paper. They manage to cram the last ones in and shut the lid before Betty makes it there.

“What’s in the box?” she asks.

“Why do you care?” Tina says nervously. “Bimbo...nerd,” she adds, probably remembering that insults are part of the repartee whenever Cheryl’s talking to Betty.

“I care because it looks like you’re carrying around a box of ballots,” says Betty, crossing her arms.

“That’s ridiculous,” Ginger pipes up.

“If it’s ridiculous, just show us what’s actually in the box,” says Jughead, coming to stand next to them.

“Flyers,” says a cheerful voice behind them, and Betty knows that voice too well.

“Flyers for what?” says Betty, whirling around to face her.

“The prom!” says Cheryl, showing her teeth in a stiff smile.

Then she hands Betty a small piece of paper, which is indeed a flyer for the prom. A black flyer with a white and red Venetian mask and curlicue, red text printed on it.

“Whatever was in that box was _yellow_ ,” says Betty, thrusting the flyer at Jughead, who seems vaguely confused but accepts it all the same. “Yellow and looking exactly like voting ballots.”

“Oh dear,” says Cheryl softly, her smile turning sad. “Are you having one of your episodes, Betty? I know how bad they can get. Perhaps you need another appointment with the nurse? I hear she can help you with more than just _protection_.”

When she says the last word, Cheryl looks at Jughead with a barely concealed cringe, and Betty face grows hot. How on earth did she find out? She can’t imagine either Veronica or Kevin telling _Cheryl_ of all people. Was she hanging around outside Ms. Stonewall’s office earlier? She can’t bear to look at Jughead, focusing instead on trying to keep her blush to a minimum, something that clearly isn’t working.

“She’s so red,” Tina says with a mean giggle.

“Oh my god, so embarrassing,” Ginger whispers loudly.

“What the hell is this, Rosewood High?” Jughead says angrily, making Tina and Ginger draw together to titter nervously.

“What’s in the box, Cheryl?” says Betty calmly, telling herself to not let the mindless minions get to her.

“I already told you,” says Cheryl, her voice suddenly hard. “Flyers for the prom. Tina, Gina, come on, we’re late for class.” She regards Jughead as she might a roadkill after three days in a ditch, then turns to Betty and adds, “Have fun with the hobo humping.”

Betty gasps in shock and starts fumbling for words, but Cheryl is already striding off down the corridor, Tina and Ginger hobbling along behind her with the box.

“It’s Ginger, by the way,” says Ginger.

“Whatever,” says Cheryl, waving her hand dismissively. “It _should_ be Gina. Gina and Tina. So much snappier.”

Betty and Jughead stare after them in silence for a few moments, and then they both start talking at once.

“I’m _so_ sorry, she’s such an–” Betty starts desperately.

“Is she for real? _Don’t_ listen to–” says Jughead at the same time. Then he grabs her shoulders. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve met rich assholes before, okay? And Cheryl Blossom is clearly next level rich asshole. No point in letting them get to you.”

She nods gratefully, then turns her face up to kiss him. Suddenly she wishes the whole school was there to see them, so she could show him how nothing that there’s nothing that Cheryl or anyone else could say or do to make her like him less.

“You know,” Jughead says between kisses. “I could do this all day, but…” he kisses her again “...we’re _so_ late for class.”

“I know,” says Betty reluctantly. “You go. I’m just going to check real quick if I can find out where they’re going with that box. Late is late, whether it’s five minutes or ten.”

“What, doing detective work without me?” he says, feigning mild outrage.

“Come on then!” she says, pulling him along.

They jog after Cheryl, stopping at corners to peek around them, but the corridors are all empty. It’s not until they reach the administrative wing that they see them; Tina and Ginger coming out of Weatherbee’s office, very much one box shorter.

“My god,” whispers Betty. “Reggie was _right_.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t get another chance to talk about it until after school, and since they end up giving Archie a ride home, Betty spends her time in the car quietly turning the conundrum over in her head while the boys chat about other things. Video games, she presumes, but then Archie prods her with an elbow.

“Still not going to prom?” he asks.

“What? No,” she says, annoyed that he interrupted her thinking.

“Classic Betty,” says Archie to Jughead. “She’s going to spend all afternoon decorating the place for everyone else and then refuse to actually enjoy her own hard work.”

Betty rolls her eyes. Ironically, dances have been a complete no-no for her ever since the one where _Archie_ turned her down. She supposes she has no real reason to sit this one out now, but between Reggie’s persistent harassment, force of habit, and Jughead’s apparent lack of interest, she hasn’t even considered it. Vaguely aware that the guys are still somehow discussing prom, she turns to look out the window, trying to figure out how to solve this mystery.

By the time they’re back home and have made sure Alice is still at work, Betty has a clear idea of what’s going on. While Jughead sits on her bed, she paces the room, explaining.

“Cheryl is going to cheat in the school election,” she says. “She’s losing in all the polls, she’s been more or less steamrolled by Ronnie in the debates, and she still swans around like the presidency is a done deal.”

“She’s deluded, though,” Jughead points out.

“Not that deluded. Also, even Reggie thinks she might be up to something.”

Jughead scoffs. “Yeah, because Reggie Mantle is _clearly_ a shining beacon of truth and justice for all.”

“Reggie has been wanting Veronica to win for weeks now,” says Betty. “And when he told me about Cheryl we weren’t on terrible terms. In fact, he probably thought we were on excellent terms. Ugh… Anyway, I think it’s pretty clear that Cheryl was lying about that box. I’ll bet you anything it’s filled with fake ballots, with votes for her.”

“And now it’s in the principal’s office,” says Jughead.

“I think Weatherbee might be in on it,” says Betty in a hushed voice. This is the truly outrageous part of her theory, but she can’t explain why Ginger and Tina would bring the ballots there otherwise. “Maybe Cheryl bribed him or something.”

“She is filthy rich,” Jughead concedes.

Betty pulls her hairband loose, gives her hair a shake and then gathers it up again. “If only there was some way to get to that box,” she says, expertly winding the hairband around the ponytail. “I mean, I could probably pick the lock to the office, but it’s always staffed.”

“Not at night.”

“The school is _locked_ at night,” she says firmly. “With proper security and alarms.”

He clears his throat and frowns. “But not...every night, right?”

Betty stops pacing and looks sharply at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” he says, then scoots over on the bed, making room for her to sit, so she sinks down on it. Then he pulls out the prom flyer from his pocket and points at the date.

He’s right. Wednesday night, the night before the election, the school _will_ be open.

“So,” says Jughead lightly. “Elizabeth Cooper. Will you go to the prom with me?”

 


	19. Prom

_Prom. Hired limos and rented suits, months of preparation for one night of potential disaster. One of the many exercises in futility high schoolers put themselves through because they're either too anxious or too complacent to think for themselves._

_Southside High didn’t do prom. In short, because it lacked all the fundamental elements necessary for a prom to ever take place._

_First of all, no locale. The gym had been flooded some years ago, leading to black mold infesting the whole building. Ever since, gym class had been held outdoors on the lawn, weather permitting. The auditorium was still intact, but with the rows of chairs screwed firmly to the floor it was only ever used for assemblies and sparsely attended PTA meetings._

_More importantly, though, no funds. With such commodities as intact bathroom stalls, post Cold War-maps and pencils still lacking, the very idea of hosting a prom must have seemed a laughable prospect to the school board. And before you ask, yes, I have heard of fundraisers. But have you heard of single parents working three jobs and still being behind on rent? Have you tried selling a $12.99 Yankee Candle to the neighbor who sometimes spends less than that feeding their family for a week?_

_Yeah._

_One of the essential components of a fundraiser is, you know, the existence of funds in the first place._

_There were other problems as well. The lack of a prom committee. The lack of a student council, even. The complete and utter lack of interest in spending even a minute longer than necessary in that crumbling heap of concrete._

_To us, prom was something that happened in movies. Or worse, at Riverdale High, which meant it was something to be quietly disgusted by. Quietly because being too vocal about might have indicated that you cared. Disgusted because the only other option was to admit to being envious on some dark, shameful level._

_Let me assure you that no one was more surprised than me at how quickly I jumped at the chance to attend this over-hyped extravaganza, this dictionary definition of a waste of time and money._

_Betty said it wasn’t a big deal. No need to go through all the motions, she said. And yeah, it wasn’t like I was going to hawk my laptop to rent a limo, but I wasn’t going to make us the laughing stock of the evening either._

_The suit was with Fangs, and when I sheepishly owned up to why I needed it, he put a firm hand on my shoulder._

_“Congratulations, man,” he said earnestly. “I know everyone says prom is a bunch of crap, but you know what? We were never even given the choice, and deep down, that’s what really hurts. Go out there and represent, Juggie. Knock ‘em dead and live to tell the tale.”_

_Yeah. About that._

 

* * *

 

Betty shouldn't have asked to borrow a dress.

Scratch that, because she never actually asked. But she shouldn't have said the word ‘prom' out loud before making sure she was inside a hundred yard wide Veronica-free perimeter. However, no such precautions had been taken, and in the blink of an eye, any reservations caused by Betty’s suggestions regarding access to Hiram Lodge’s office had been dispelled in favor of a two day long emergency prom-prep operation.

Tuesday afternoon was spent listening to Ronnie bemoaning the state of Betty’s nails while shopping for shoes, then bemoaning the state of her skin while getting their nails done, and finally bemoaning the state of men in general while waiting for facials. Earlier today she had had to physically tear herself away from being forced into a professional two hour hair-and-makeup session to be able to fulfill her duties decorating the auditorium with the rest of the prom committee.

Now, with less than an hour to go, she’s standing on a stool in Ronnie’s bedroom while the Lodges’ private seamstress is making last minute adjustments to her gown. It’s pale blue and lavishly embroidered with mother-of-pearl and silver thread. Beads and sequins cling to it in tasteful clusters that glitter subtly when she moves. It’s the perfect gown for a Venetian themed ball, and it’s probably invaluable.

“I mean, I should have listened when Zuhair said that periwinkle wasn’t my color, but can you blame me for trying?” says Veronica. “I’m _so_ glad I finally found a use for it.”

“It’s wonderful,” says Betty, probably for the fifteenth time this evening. “And yours is gorgeous too.”

Betty can’t imagine a color that _wouldn’t_ look gorgeous on Veronica, but has to admit that the ruffled, purple high-low hem dress her friend is critically eying in the mirror is particularly striking. The flowing creation Betty is currently being more or less sewn into is slightly more restrained, but no less elegant and luxurious, and she has carefully avoided asking how much ruining it would set her back. That’s simply not an option, she thinks, vowing to stay as far away from Reggie and glasses of Fanta as possible.

“Miss Cooper?” Smithers calls from outside the room, his voice muffled through the door. “Mr. Jones has arrived.”

“Tell him she needs five minutes!” Veronica yells.

Veronica turns five into fifteen as she fusses over Betty’s hair, gives her a sheer organza shawl to drape over her shoulders, and finally hands her a pearl-strewn purse to match her gown.

“The masks are in there,” she says, then grabs Betty’s shoulders almost roughly. “You look like a dream, B. I want to say don’t do anything I would, but I also have a strong inkling your mythical virginity won’t survive the night.”

“Ronnie,” says Betty in a hushed voice.

“Just go,” says Veronica, throwing her hands up dramatically and turning around. “Lodges don’t cry with makeup on unless the occasion specifically calls for it, and you’re going to make me cry if you don’t go already.”

“I’ll...see you later then,” says Betty, trying to get her bearings again after suffering the veritable tornado that is Veronica in full makeover mode.

“ _Fashionably_ later.”

Just as well, Betty thinks as she hurries through the hallways of the Pembrooke, her gown flowing dramatically behind her. She hasn’t told Ronnie about Cheryl’s possible foul play in the election. Knowing Veronica she’d only kick up a fuss and make a scene in the Principal’s office, and if Betty’s hunch turns out to be incorrect… It doesn’t bear thinking about. No, she wants confirmation first and luckily, Jughead came up with the perfect cover of actually attending prom. She’s almost _completely_ certain that it’s just a cover story. Jughead definitely doesn’t strike her as the prom type, and for the past couple of years, Betty has become very adept at convincing herself that _she’s_ not the prom type either. So. No expectations, she thinks sternly to herself as she pushes the door open.

Jughead is sitting on the steps to the building, but at the sound of the door opening he glances over his shoulder and then gets to his feet. Betty freezes in the doorway, taking him in. He’s wearing a suit and tie, and the since the jacket has been left unbuttoned she catches a glimpse of his suspenders, for once worn the intended way. It’s not a bad look. Not at all, and for a split second she imagines herself using the suspenders to pull him close, and swallows nervously.

“Hi,” she says, her voice sounding unnaturally high.

“Hey,” he says, reaching up to slowly take his beanie off before pulling his fingers through his unruly shock of hair, possibly in an attempt to tame it. “Betty, you…”

“Leave it,” she says quickly, half reaching out for his hand but managing to stop herself. “I mean, it looks great. Your hair. And you. You look great.”

Jughead frowns suspiciously, looking down at his feet, but also can’t seem to help a shy smile from tugging at his lips.

“My Armani was at the drycleaners, so I had to make do,” he says, then bends down to pick up a small, uneven parcel wrapped in silk paper.

“What’s that?” asks Betty, joining him on the sidewalk.

“Sorry it’s not in one of those plastic boxes,” he says, handing her the packet. “The florist on the Southside mainly does funerals.”

Betty unwraps the parcel carefully, revealing a beautiful corsage with a single pale blue rose surrounded by ivy and forget-me-nots. It’s held together by a wide silk ribbon to provide a makeshift bracelet, and Jughead helps her tie it to her wrist.

“It’s lovely,” she says quietly, inhaling the sweet scent of the flowers. Then she realizes something. “Jughead, I had no idea you were going to… I mean, I didn’t get you a…”

“Fear not, sweet lady,” he says with a wry smile, then digs around in his chest pocket to produce a smaller rose. “I brought this just in case.”

Betty fastens it to the lapel of his jacket, letting her hands linger on his chest when she’s done.

“Thank you,” she says, looking up at him.

She doesn’t just mean the rose. He wouldn’t know, of course, but Betty has played this very scene out in her head a thousand times, mostly with Archie in a starring role. Apparently she would make for a terrible playwright, because her daydreaming doesn’t even begin to compare.

Jughead wets his lips. “Betty–”

But she’s already turning her face up for a kiss and he obliges with an amused smile.

“Your makeup,” he mumbles against her lips.

“It’ll be dark in there anyway,” she says.

He snorts softly but gives in to the kiss, slipping his arm around her waist to pull her closer.

“Jeez you guys, get a freaking room,” says a familiar voice. “Aren’t you supposed to wait with that stuff until _after_ prom?”

It’s Archie, ogling them with confusion as he approaches. His suit looks brand new, and with all the dark purple details on the jacket he might as well have _VL_ embroidered on his pocket square.

“How long has this been a thing?” he asks, motioning at them. “I mean it can’t be that long since you practically only just _met_ , but–”

“Here to pick up Ronnie?” Betty interrupts him.

“Yeah,” says Archie, his gaze lingering on Jughead’s arm, still casually wrapped around her waist. His frown deepens. “Weren’t you saying, like, yesterday that you didn’t want to go?”

“That was Monday, actually,” says Betty.

“She was surprisingly easy to convince,” says Jughead.

Archie looks from Betty to Jughead and back again as though he’s trying hard to process what is happening.

“She’s not ready yet,” says Betty, nodding towards the entrance of the Pembrooke. “I’d say you’re looking at at least forty minutes alone with Smithers.”

“Or just opt for the stairs like I did,” says Jughead.

“Great,” says Archie with a sigh. “I’ll have to spend even longer worrying about this.”

He pulls out a dramatic looking black-and-purple corsage, no doubt hand-picked by Veronica herself. This one _is_ in a plastic case, but looks a little worse for wear.

“I accidentally sat on it,” Archie says miserably.

Betty nearly chokes trying to hold back a snort and suddenly pretends to become very interested in her own wrist decoration, sniffing the rose vigorously in an attempt to suppress the laughter that keeps threatening to bubble up.

“It’s the thought that counts,” Jughead says, stone-faced.

“You clearly haven’t met Veronica,” says Archie before trudging up the stairs to knock on the door.

 

* * *

 

Since they arrive in Jughead’s truck rather than a rented car, they park around the back of the school. The parking lot is more or less deserted, and they slip inside a side entrance unseen.

“You sure you want to do this right now?” Jughead asks quietly, easing the door shut behind them.

“It’s only a matter of time before people start looking for hidden makeout spots,” Betty whispers back. “And no one knows we’re here yet, so we can pretend to arrive once we’re done.”

Avoiding the main hallway, where Cheryl has set up a red carpet with professional photographers, they take the long way around through deserted corridors to the office. After making sure one last time that they’re alone, Betty pulls two hairpins out of her carefully arranged tresses and sets to work while Jughead fidgets nervously behind her.

“What about security cameras?” he asks.

“We don’t have any,” says Betty.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Betty can practically feel his dubious eyes on the back of her neck, so she goes on. “Weatherbee had me fill in as secretary on a board meeting less than two months ago and one of the things they discussed was whether it was time to invest in a new security system. It was voted down in favor of attending some conference at a golf course in Florida.”

That seems to mollify him enough that she can work on the lock in peace for a minute until it finally clicks open.

“There we go,” says Betty triumphantly and they hurry inside, closing the door carefully behind them.

Once safe on the other side, Jughead relaxes visibly. While Betty moves on to the next obstacle - Weatherbee’s inner office - he walks around, flipping through folders and picking up books. After a while, he comes up to her and looks on with interest.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” he asks.

“The _Nancy Drew Handbook_ and hours of practice.”

“Impressive,” he says, then leans causally against the door and clears his throat. “Betty?”

“Yes?” Then the lock clicks, and she feels a rush of thrilled relief. “Yes!” she breathes, nudging Jughead aside to open the door.

It’s easy enough to spot the box that Tina and Ginger were carrying where it’s sitting on Weatherbee’s desk. Eagerly, Betty lifts the lid off and looks inside. Just as she suspected, it’s filled with election ballots.

“I knew it, I knew it,” she says fervently, rifling through the yellow slips of paper.

But as she looks more closely, her excitement soon turns into a sense of mounting dread. There’s nothing wrong with them, she realizes. She grabs a bunch of ballots and flips through them. Cheryl’s, Veronica’s and Dilton’s names are on them, but all of the boxes are unticked. She takes another stack and repeats the procedure with the same result.

“I hate to be the one to say it but these seem legit,” says Jughead after a while, digging deep into the box and pulling out slips at random.

“It can’t be,” says Betty, eyeing through pile upon pile. “There has to be more, somewhere else.”

She starts pulling out drawers and looks under the desk, then stands on her tiptoes to check behind the books in the bookshelf, but nothing seems out of the ordinary.

“I don’t think we’ll find anything,” says Jughead, putting the lid back on the box. “We should go. This is getting risky.”

“Maybe he moved them,” says Betty desperately. “Maybe in Ms. Carter’s office…”

“Betty,” says Jughead firmly, grabbing a hold of her wrist. “Leave it, okay? We can’t spend all night here.”

Reluctantly, she lets herself be dragged away from the office, the wheels in her head spinning furiously as they rush through the empty corridors towards the parking lot again. Perhaps the fake ballots had already been moved to the election urns? She’d seen them earlier in the auditorium, she remembers. Cheryl had volunteered to move them to a cupboard to make room for a drinks table. _Cheryl_ , of all people, offering to assist with manual labor. Betty should have known…

“Jughead, I think–” she begins, but as they round a corner they run right into Dilton Doiley, who’s standing nose deep in an iPad, watching a movie.

Dilton gives a terrified squeak and clutches the iPad to his chest, looking at Jughead like he’s afraid he might steal it.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” Jughead says, raising his hands apologetically.

Dilton doesn’t reply, just backs away a few steps, panic shining in his eyes, before breaking into a run and disappearing down the hallway.

“What the hell?” Jughead scoffs.

“Dilton’s weird,” Betty says dismissively, heading for the back door while still thinking about how to get at those urns. “Come on, let’s go make an entrance.”

Jughead is more than a little reluctant to having his picture taken, but once Betty shows him the masks, he grudgingly agrees to the red carpet walk. His mask is painted in black and red gold, and has a fox motif and he examines his reflection in the window of a limousine that’s parked by the sidewalk outside the school. Experimentally he puts his beanie back on and then takes it off again.

“I may look like an idiot, but at least I don’t look like myself,” he grumbles.

“I guess that makes two of us,” says Betty cheerfully. Her own mask is far more extravagant, adorned with butterfly wings in glittering silver and blue.

“That’s... _no_. It doesn’t.” Jughead sighs and takes her hands in his, his eyes flitting between hers. “Betty–”

Just then, the door of the limousine flies open, revealing Veronica, stunning in her purple dress and with a peacock mask that likely left an actual bird a few tail feathers short of a full plumage.

“Betty!” she says, getting out of the car far more elegantly than humanly possible with that amount of skirt-ruffles. “You didn’t have to wait for us,” she says. Then she smirks and glances at Jughead. “Or did you get distracted along the way?”

“Um…” says Jughead, but Veronica’s focus is already shifting rapidly as a blood red limousine pulls up next to hers.

“Archie, get out here,” she snaps.

Archie looks out from inside the limousine, a champagne glass in his hand. “I thought we were waiting another ten minutes,” he complains.

“Veronica Lodge waits for no one, especially not Cheryl Blossom,” says Ronnie, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

“But you literally said…” says Archie.

“Come _on_!”

“Now would be an _excellent_ time to go,” says Betty to Jughead, dragging him along and making a beeline across the lawn towards the entrance.

Predictably, all eyes and cameras alike are immediately drawn to Veronica and Cheryl, their subtle pushing soon turning into outright shoving as they fight for centre stage on the red carpet.

“This is gold,” says Jughead, glancing back over his shoulder. “It’s like we’re in some _Mean Girls_ LARP or something. A shame no one’s ever going to believe me over on the Southside.”

They head inside more or less unnoticed, reaching the bustling auditorium just as the music winds down into a ballad. All around them, couples are pairing off to dance. Josie McCoy, easily recognizable in a gold gown and a cat mask is dancing with someone Betty doesn’t know, but there’s no mistaking Midge and Moose, their height difference doing their names more than justice. Ethel’s copper curls are particularly striking against a green dress, and Betty is willing to bet a three-figure sum that her partner is Trev Brown.

“Is that you, Betty?” says Nancy Woods, sweeping past her on the arm of Chuck Clayton. “I _love_ the dress!”

“So, are we doing this?” Jughead asks quietly in Betty’s ear.

“We don’t have to,” she says. Cheryl still hasn’t made her grand entrance, and Betty should be looking for those ballots. On the other hand, it _is_ prom and now that they’re here... “But if we want to play the part, maybe we should,” she says innocently.

“I have to warn you that I’m probably a terrible dancer,” says Jughead, taking her hand and steering them onto the dance floor.

“Probably?” she asks, looping her arms around his neck.

“An educated guess,” he says dryly, placing his hands uncertainly on her hips.

“You’ve never danced?” she asks incredulously.

“There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

It's hard to read his expression behind the mask but he doesn't seem too displeased with shuffling around the floor with her, and they soon settle into a sway which shows that no matter how inexperienced a dancer Jughead is, he at least has a good sense of rhythm. Betty for one is enjoying the closeness and the warmth, and the scent of the rose on Jughead’s lapel mingling with his own safe, familiar smell.

“Not too bad, right?” she says.

“It’s not terrible,” he concedes. “All toes intact, and we’re both still upright at least. Let me know if I need to make any adjustments.”

“Well…” says Betty thoughtfully. “The hand placement is a bit, you know,  _chaste_.”

“Too middle school?” he asks and moves a little closer, letting his hands slide around and down to rest on her lower back. “Better?”

“Perfect,” she says.

“Yeah, speaking of perfect…”

There’s something delicate and nervous about the way he says it that makes her stop and frown a little.

“What?” she says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says. He throws a glance at the ceiling and takes a determined breath. “Listen, I’ve been trying to say it all night and by now it feels like the world’s most overdue punchline, but fuck it, here it goes. You look amazing, Betty. You look like a dream.”

He leans down to kiss her softly, and for a moment, Betty forgets all about Cheryl and the election. If it is a dream, she doesn’t want to wake up, because her long-discarded mental checklist of things making up her dream prom is slowly being completed without her even trying. She has the perfect date, she’s wearing the perfect dress, and this is the perfect kiss during the perfect dance. It’s a moment to trap in time, to treasure and preserve like a snow globe that she can shake years from now to stir up a swirl of glittering emotions.

But like all such moments it ends too soon, the chatter in the ballroom rising once more as the song fades out.

“What's the plan now, Miss Marple?” Jughead asks as Betty reluctantly releases her hold on him.

“The election urns. Cheryl put them away somewhere.” Betty glances over at the DJ table where Melody and Val are busy turning the tempo up. “Melody was there as well, maybe she knows where.”

“In that case, you’ll find me at the snacks table when you need me.”

“I might be a while,” Betty warns him.

“Nevertheless,” he says, and with an ironic salute he turns on his heel and heads for the big banner that says ‘refreshments’.

As Betty makes her way towards Melody, she get the sudden feeling she’s being watched. There’s a strange shift in the air, and she’s sure she can hear someone snickering behind her. Midge stares openly when Betty passes her, then shows Moose something on her phone. It must be about her and Jughead, she realizes, her face hardening with anger. People apparently can’t handle good girl Betty Cooper bringing a Southsider to prom.

She squeezes past a speaker to get behind the DJ table where Valerie and Melody are standing hunched over Val’s phone. When Betty joins them, Valerie puts it away quickly, and they both look at her like they’ve seen a ghost. Betty feels her smile tighten in irritation, but decides to shrug it off.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” she asks Melody.

“Betty, I had nothing to do with it,” says Melody quickly.

“With what?” Betty frowns.

Val and Melody exchange a nervous glance.

“You might want to check your notifications,” says Valerie.

“You might want to do it outside,” Melody hurries to add, but Betty has already taken her phone out.

She’s got four unread texts but also - more worryingly - twenty-three notifications and mentions on Instagram. Even as she opens the app it buzzes again from some comment she’s been tagged in.

She doesn’t have to scroll far to get to the source of the constant buzzing, and once she does, she feels the air escape her lungs as though she’s been punched.

Reggie has posted the selfie with her from the party in Greendale, and worse, he’s added a familiar, sticky-looking brown stain to her face. The picture is tagged #stickymaple, and before she can read the rest of the caption the words begin to blur together, and she rips her mask off, blinking furiously, trying to focus.

Then she spots the dot below the picture that indicates that she can swipe for more, so she does. The world seems to suddenly go quiet, a horrible, muffled silence filling Betty’s ears until all she can hear is the deafening pounding of her own heart.

The second photo is taken from above, and while it realistically could be anyone, Betty knows that it _is_ her, that it’s the back of her head between Reggie’s legs as she’s looking for his ‘dropped contact’. Of course, it looks like she’s doing something entirely different.

“This isn’t…” she begins, looking at Val and Melody. Then she laughs, an irrational, stuttering laugh while motioning at her phone. “I mean, I did not. I did _not_.”

Without anyone manning the turntables, the ballroom goes quiet as the song that was playing ends, and when she looks out across the dancefloor, Betty can tell to her horror that the majority of the couples out there are standing quietly, their faces hidden by masks, staring at her frozen with her phone in hand.

“Val!” Melody hisses, and Valerie jerks into action, rushing to put a record on. “If you’re looking for that asshole, he’s by the bar,” Melody goes on, laying a soft hand on Betty’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” says Betty mechanically, watching as people begin to dance hesitatingly again, many of them still glancing in her direction. Then she lets her gaze sweep over to the bar, and sure enough, there’s no mistaking the dark hair and wolf mask belonging to Reggie Mantle. Some primal instinct takes over then, leaving her brain feeling almost disconnected from her body as she stands up straight.

“Go get him, B,” says Melody as Betty begins striding across the floor.

For once in her life, the crowds seem to part for her as they would for Veronica, giving her a clear path to the bar. To say that she curls her fist on impulse would be a lie. There’s plenty of time to consider and subsequently ignore the consequences of what she’s about to do. By the time she’s within swinging range her arm is trembling, and Reggie turns around just in time to see her pull it back and take aim.

The punch hits him square in the jaw, and the two things that happen next are equally surprising. First of all, Reggie stumbles and falls to the floor, drawing gasps and shrieks from the promgoers around them. Secondly, Betty’s face twists up as excruciating pain shoots through her fingers, all the way up her arm.

“Motherf--!” she starts, clutching at her hand.

Then Veronica comes hurrying over to her and grabs her arm to pull her back from Reggie who’s slowly getting to his feet again with a face like thunder.

“That time of month, Cooper?” he says, grinning grimly while prodding his chin.

“Leave it!” Veronica says, quietly but firmly in Betty’s ear. “There’s better ways of dealing with this.”

“God _damn_ it,” Betty groans, still far too preoccupied with the blinding pain in her hand to even think about hitting Reggie again.

And then Jughead is at her side, grabbing a hold of her other arm.

“You okay, Betty?” he asks.

“Jughead, I didn’t do it,” says Betty desperately. “That sticky maple thing, it’s fake, I promise.”

“He knows,” says Veronica in a way that tells Betty that she made sure so herself.

Jughead ignores both of them, frowning down at Betty’s hand. “What did he do?” he asks, glaring over at Reggie.

“What did _she_ do, you mean?” Reggie says. He spits on the floor and Betty notes with satisfaction that there’s a bit of red in it. “You should keep her on a leash, lizard boy.”

By now there’s a crowd gathering around. Kevin and Archie are hurrying to join Betty and Veronica, while Moose and Chuck come to stand with Reggie.

“So I guess this is happening,” Jughead mutters. He steps towards Reggie, tosses his mask aside and rolls his head from side to side briefly.

“How does it feel, knowing your Serpent slut was a Bulldog bitch all along?” Reggie asks, tilting his chin towards Betty.

A soft ‘ooh’ goes through the crowd at that.

“Woah, that’s not cool, Reggie,” says Archie.

Jughead sighs, but his shoulders are squared, tense and set. “You trying to pick a fight?” he asks Reggie. “Because I feel like you’ve been waiting for an excuse to beat me up ever since you first saw me in science class.”

Reggie snickers, shaking his head. “I don’t need an excuse to thrash Southside scum. I’ll take every chance I get to step on a snake.”

“How’s this for an opportunity?” says Jughead, flipping his hands out.

“Uh-oh,” says Kevin quietly.

“That about sums it up,” says Betty, for a brief moment considering trying to pull Jughead away.

She knows exactly how this is going to go. She can tell by the way Moose and Chuck draw themselves up behind Reggie, by how Archie and Kevin shuffle closer to Jughead, but short of setting off the fire sprinklers, she doesn’t see how she or anyone else can stop it.

“Guys, let’s not do anything stupid,” Veronica says, and predictably, no one listens.

“Are you _into_ that kind of stuff?” Reggie says to Jughead. “I mean, I know Betty likes to get physical but god damn, keep that BDSM bullshit in the bedroom, am I right?” He looks around at Moose who laughs dutifully.

“That’s an awfully fancy acronym coming from you, Mantle,” says Jughead sharply. “You seem well-acquainted with it, so who’s really into what here?”

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Reggie snarls, then rips his mask off and hurls himself at Jughead without warning.

But Jughead dances aside easily, leaving Reggie reeling and stumbling into a heap of startled onlookers.

“He started it,” Jughead says to no one in particular. “Just so we’re clear on that.”

Then he flies at Reggie just as he’s getting to his feet, and in a matter of seconds all hell has broken loose. The crowd surges to make room for Jughead and Reggie who are rolling around on the floor, causing another couple of minors scraps to break out when feet are being trod on and dress trains ripped by heels. Masks fly through the air as Archie scuffles with Chuck while Veronica stomps her foot, shouting at them to stop. Moose goes for Kevin, who gives him a disappointed look before throwing him expertly to the floor.

“Sorry about that,” he says, before Moose pulls him down by the leg, forcing him to continue wrestling in earnest.

“Someone get Principal Weatherbee!” Veronica screams while Betty shuffles away from a couple of Bulldogs who seem to have gotten the wrong end of the stick and are now pummeling each other for no obvious reason.

“I’m already here!” Weatherbee says sternly, pushing his way through the crowds. The fact that he’s flanked by Cheryl Blossom and Dilton Doiley is somehow more distressing to Betty than anything else so far this evening.

Chuck and Archie stop fighting of their own accord, but it takes Moose’s and Kevin’s combined strength to separate Reggie and Jughead. Betty rushes to Jughead’s side to fuss over a cut lip and a bruise forming on his forehead, and meanwhile, Kevin holds Reggie down as Moose talks softly to him in an attempt to calm him.

“Miss Cooper, Miss Lodge and Mr. Jones, to my office _now_ ,” says Weatherbee in a frosty voice. Then he looks down at the heap of boys at his feet and pulls an exasperated face. “I’ll deal with you later,” he mutters.

The walk to the office seems to last an age. Betty desperately wants to talk to Jughead, to tell him the whole truth about those sticky maple pictures, but the triumphantly swaying hips of Cheryl in front of her keeps her from saying anything. Cheryl, and _Dilton_. Dilton and _Cheryl_ ? Betty glances to her left. And Veronica. Why are _they_ being called into the office? Somewhere on the edge of her mind an explanation hovers, but it’s one that she doesn’t even want to begin to consider.

“Miss Blossom, your assistance won’t be necessary,” says Weatherbee when they reach the office.

“But Waldo–!” Cheryl starts.

“Mr. Doiley, the device please,” the principal says, ignoring Cheryl. “You’ll have it back shortly.”

Dilton silently hands his iPad to Weatherbee, who shows Betty, Ronnie and Jughead inside.

“Principal Weatherbee, I saw the whole thing,” says Veronica confidently. “Reggie jumped Jughead for no reason, and also, he’s spreading false information about Betty on social media, and–”

“Miss Lodge, please!” Weatherbee says, putting his hand up. Then he turns to Betty, who hasn’t been the recipient of a look as disappointed as this since she was nine and finished last in a figure skating competition. “Miss Cooper,” he says with a sigh. “ _Betty._ I would very much like for you to give me a reasonable explanation as to why you felt it necessary to break into this office less than an hour ago.”

“What?” breathes Veronica.

“How…?” says Betty, feeling herself go cold. Next to her, Jughead makes an indistinct but clearly distressed noise.

Weatherbee turns the iPad on, pressing play on the paused video on the screen. The footage is dark and uneven, but Betty can make out herself, filmed from a bird’s eye angle, picking the lock of the office with Jughead pacing around behind her.

“Dilton Doiley came to me last week, offering me a free trial on a security system he’s designing himself,” says Weatherbee. “Little did I know it would come in handy so soon. Now I’m going to ask you again, Betty. Why?”

Betty swallows hard. “Because I think… I _know_ Cheryl is going to cheat in the election tomorrow.”

“ _What?_ ” Veronica says again.

“Mr. Jones, was this your idea, by any chance?” Weatherbee asks, turning suddenly to Jughead.

Jughead glances at Betty. “I’m not involved in the election,” he says reluctantly.

“I wasn’t asking about the election,” says Weatherbee.

“It was _my_ idea,” says Betty. “He had nothing to do with it. Look, I saw Tina and Ginger with that box of ballots on your desk…”

“...Because they were kind enough to help Mr. Svenson who’s got a sore shoulder!” Weatherbee snaps.

“But Cheryl said it was prom flyers when it clearly wasn’t!” Betty says, dread creeping into her voice.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” says Veronica quietly.

Because somehow, Cheryl planned all of this. Together with Reggie, maybe even together with _Dilton_ of all people. Because she’d been sure Weatherbee was in on it. Because she’s still not sure he isn’t, but she can hardly tell _him_ that. Betty takes a deep breath, preparing to exercise maximum damage control.

“I made a mistake,” she says. “Reggie fed me false information, and with the election coming up tomorrow, I wanted to make sure there was no foul play.”

“And you thought breaking and entering was the _only_ option?” says Weatherbee, enunciating each word with precision.

“I made a mistake,” she says again, forcing a smile. “But I honestly think you should look into Cheryl, because she moved the urns earlier, and–”

“Don’t push it, Miss Cooper,” Weatherbee says warningly. “Betty, you’re a straight-A student and have long been a trusted friend to the faculty staff. The change in your... _behavior_ over the past few weeks is regrettable, but you can still turn things around. Perhaps a starting point would be spending less time in the company of students with a previous criminal record.” He glances pointedly at Jughead, who rolls his eyes and looks away.

“I have no choice but to suspend you from extracurriculars for the rest of the semester,” Weatherbee goes on. “Also, I’m giving you two weeks’ detention.”

Betty draws a shaky breath. That’s not too bad, she thinks. It could have been a _lot_ worse. “Yes, Principal Weatherbee,” she says meekly.

“Forsythe Jones,” says Weatherbee, turning to Jughead. “Riverdale High welcomed you with open arms…”

“Yeah,” scoffs Jughead. “I wouldn’t exactly call it that, but whatever.”

“...And how do you thank us?” Weatherbee goes on. “By breaking into this office. By assaulting the captain of the football team!”

“He started it, you can ask anyone,” says Jughead.

“It’s true,” says Veronica quickly. “I saw the whole thing.”

“Miss Lodge, for the love of God!” Weatherbee closes his eyes briefly, then turns back to Jughead. “Bearing in mind your history of criminal activity, and the harmful influence you clearly have over Miss Cooper, I am suspending you for ten days.”

“ _What?_ ” says Betty, getting to her feet.

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it,” says Jughead darkly.

“That’s insane!” Veronica puts in. “Reggie the raging misogynist is the one who deserves a suspension!”

“My decision is final,” says Weatherbee loudly.

“I was the one who broke in!” says Betty. “I even punched Reggie first!”

“Did I not tell you not to push it?” asks Weatherbee between clenched teeth.

“If he’s suspended, then so am I,” Betty says, voice trembling with rage. She reaches out for Jughead’s hand, and he takes it quietly.

Weatherbee sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Truancy will not look good on your report card, Miss Cooper. Keep that in mind when you decide whether to show up tomorrow or not.” He takes several deep breaths before turning to Veronica. “Now for you, Miss Lodge.”

Veronica crosses her legs in a businesslike manner. “As I was saying, I saw the whole thing, and–”

“I am not interested in your part in the ridiculous rough-and-tumble over some petty Instagram drama!” Weatherbee bellows, pounding his fist on the table hard enough to make the three of them jump. “Miss Lodge, your associates in the election campaign broke into this office and willfully tampered with the election ballots. Naturally, it follows that you are disqualified as a candidate _and_ from casting a vote tomorrow.”

Veronica makes the smallest of noises, like a startled rodent. “Excuse me?” she whispers.

“You heard me,” says Principal Weatherbee. “This isn’t the first time your campaign manager is caught attempting to tamper in the election.”

“I wasn’t tampering, I was _investigating_ ,” says Betty. “And she had nothing to do with it. She had no idea.”

“This isn’t up for debate, girls,” says Weatherbee sharply.

Veronica calmly smooths down the ruffles on her skirt and clears her throat. “That is _very_ unfortunate,” she says. “No doubt my father will be concerned that his daughter is punished for something she had no part in. You can expect a formal complaint within the next twenty-four hours.”

“You’re not _threatening_ me, are you, Miss Lodge?” Weatherbee says, boring his eyes into Veronica. Then he turns his glare to Betty and Jughead. “And you two? Can I trust you to leave the premises without breaking into any rooms or will I need to involve Sheriff Keller?”

Betty shakes her head mutely.

“Then please leave. _Now_. I still have Mantle to deal with.”

“Come on, V,” Betty murmurs, reaching for Ronnie’s hand.

Veronica ignores her, and without a word she sweeps out of the office with the trail of her dress rustling across the floor. Betty hurries after her, Jughead on her heels.

“Ronnie, I’m sorry,” she says, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you really, Betty?” Veronica snaps, whirling around. “Sorry for what, exactly? For getting carried away with some crazy conspiracy theory that Cheryl is trying to cheat in the election? For ruining my whole campaign because of some ridiculous notion _Reggie Mantle_ managed to plant in your head? For not telling _me_ about any of it? It's like I don't even know you anymore, B.”

Veronica swallows hard and shakes her head before she goes on. “You know what, it doesn't matter if you're sorry or not. The damage is done, and so am I.”

With that she stalks off, wiping at her cheeks, leaving Betty with a sinking feeling that maybe there's no coming back from this. Gently, Jughead rests his hand on her back.

“You meant well,” he says. “Give it time and she'll come around.”

Before Betty can answer him she's interrupted by Cheryl, materializing from the shadows behind them. She comes to stand next to Betty, a satisfied smile on her face as they watch Veronica's disappearing form.

“Oh, Betty,” she says with a happy sigh. “Don't you just love it when a plan comes together?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful [satelliteinasupernova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/satelliteinasupernova/pseuds/satelliteinasupernova) has created an _amazing_ piece of art based on this chapter, and I'm sharing it here with her permission. I'm so incredibly honoured and humbled by this. Just look at it! _Look at it!!_
> 
> (Original post can be found on [satelliteinasupernova's tumblr](http://satelliteinasupernova.tumblr.com/post/173419672544/he-throws-a-glance-at-the-ceiling-and-takes-a))


	20. Intermezzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much Raptorlily and nimmieamee for your support and feedback <3
> 
> Since this is by and large not a smut-centric fic, I'm unsure what to do with the rating right now. I will leave it as is, but as always with sexual content, your mileage may vary.

_Let me tell you about the Northside girls with their dusty pink blouses and their white tennis shoes._

_They would haunt the mall in pairs or small groups, arm in arm, sipping at fresh pressed juices, soft, sleek hair bouncing in unison as they passed by the fountain where the Southside boys were sitting._

_Exactly why we felt drawn to the gleaming, vaguely chlorine-smelling hell that was Riverdale’s mall was unclear. As were the reasons for us ogling girls that wouldn’t spare us a second glance._

_“They want us to look,” said Sweet Pea._

_“I think what they want is two hundred thousand followers on Instagram,” I said._

_“And Sephora freebies,” said Toni._

_“Sweets is right,” said Fangs, nodding at a couple of girls walking by. “That’s the third time in twenty minutes those two are walking past JC Penney. They definitely want us to look.”_

_“Come on Fogarty, let’s take a stroll,” said Toni, jumping down off the fountain ledge with a determined look in her eyes. “I need a new highlighter.”_

_“I can’t with girls right now, T,” said Fangs with a sigh, getting down to join her all the same._

_“Good, you can be the gay best friend.”_

_As we watched them disappear after the Northside girls, Sweet Pea dug out two packets of M &M’s he’d swiped at the drugstore earlier and tossed one at me. _

_“No way are they going to score,” said Sweet Pea sullenly, cramming a handful of candies in his mouth._

_“Toni might,” I said, chewing thoughtfully. “Although why she’d ever want to eludes me.”_

_Another pack of girls passed by then, and our stares were inevitably drawn to their smooth calves, their pastel skirts, their swinging ponytails. One of them threw a glance over her shoulder at us, and seconds later the whole group erupted into high-pitched titters. Since Fangs wasn’t there, it followed that Sweet Pea was the main attraction, and when another girl looked back at him, he held her gaze cooly until she stumbled, clinging onto a friend with a yelp and sending her friends into another fit of giggles._

_“No offense but there’s no way you’d say no to that,” Sweet Pea said._

_“Actually, I would,” I said testily. “Because unlike you and Toni I don’t consort with the enemy. Full offense, but some of us don’t think with our goddamn dicks, Sweets.”_

_Anyway, it wasn’t like I was deluded enough to think one of them would actually ever_ ask _._

 

* * *

 

“I’m so, so sorry I got you dragged into this mess,” says Betty, for what feels like the umpteenth time.

She and Jughead are sitting in his truck in the parking lot of the school, delaying the ride home for as long as possible. Betty’s phone starts vibrating in her lap, and she clicks away the call without looking. It’s been her mother the previous eight times and she has no reason to suspect that this time is any different.

“Yeah, well,” says Jughead with a sigh. “Madam Satan had me pretty good too.”

“Who knows how long she’s been planning this?” Betty says, fiddling with the damp tissue she’s holding. “And Reggie! I can’t believe I _ever_ fell for that act.”

Jughead reaches over and takes her hand. “I know it sucks right now, but it’s high school, Betty. You know how quickly these things blow over.”

She nods mutely, swiping away a stray tear from her cheek. “I know, I know. But you’re _suspended_ and it’s my fault.”

“It’s not exactly the first time,” he admits.

“Really?” she says, sniffing. “What happened?”

“Uh, let’s see,” says Jughead and starts counting off fingers. “Skipping the line at lunch, talking back to a teacher, arguing with a teacher, arguing with a teacher and _winning_ , questioning the curriculum, graffiti… That one I don’t have an excuse for actually. Rocking my chair back until I crashed… Oh, and defacing a library book. But the author was clearly an idiot so no regrets.”

“Wow,” says Betty and frowns. “Suspension though? That is _harsh_.”

“After I did time in juvie I was a pretty easy target.”

Betty’s stomach lurches uncomfortably. A previous criminal record, Weatherbee had said, and this must be what he meant. “What did you do?” she asks.

“I skipped school and went to the mall.”

“What?” Betty says, confused. “That makes no sense. Veronica does that twice a month to get her nails done and calls it essential self-care!”

“In my case it was called loitering, truancy and possession of contraband,” says Jughead dryly. “It was cigarettes and they were Sweet Pea’s,” he adds when she eyes him warily.

“That’s… That’s _insane_.”

“Point is, I can handle a ten day suspension,” says Jughead. Then his phone starts ringing and he looks down at it. “The question is, can your mom?”

 

* * *

 

When they come home, Alice is sitting the kitchen, eyes red-rimmed and hands shaking. There’s an empty wine glass and an open bottle on the table and she barely looks up when Betty sits down opposite her. Jughead lingers behind her, probably trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

“Mom…” says Betty carefully.

“Is it real?” Alice asks quietly.

“What?” Betty frowns.

Alice pushes her phone across the table, and on the screen is the picture of her and Reggie. Betty gives her head a little shake and pushes the phone back with a repulsed shudder.

“No,” she says. “Of course not.”

“Because if you’re going down the same road as Polly, sneaking off to parties and sleeping with football captains, I swear to _god_ Betty…” Her mother trails off and grabs the bottle of wine to pour herself another glass.

Betty huffs, lost for words. “Do you really think–” she starts.

“I don’t know what to think anymore!” Alice snaps suddenly. Then she fixes Jughead with her gaze. “And you! Breaking and entering. Suspended! And according to Waldo, a poor influence on my daughter.” She adds the last part in a trembling voice, as though this particular offence trumps all the others.

“ _Mom!_ ” Betty protests.

“Not another word, Elizabeth!” Alice barks, slamming the wine glass down so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t smash. She gets to her feet slowly, looking from Betty to Jughead and back again. “First of all, you’re both grounded. _Indefinitely_ . Secondly, I’m taking away your phones and I’m changing the WiFi password. Your time will be spent..." she waves a hand in the air, "... _studying_ or, or...helping with the chores! Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Jughead, and Betty nods.

“Jughead,” says Alice, turning to him. “This is your last chance. Mess it up and I’m handing you over to CPS. Now, phone on the table and get out of my sight!”

Jughead hands over his phone and slinks up the stairs, leaving Betty alone with her mother.

“You will stop spending time with that good-for-nothing hoodlum this _instant_ , Elizabeth. You should be focusing on securing your grades, not losing yourself in some ridiculous belated teenage rebellion phase!”

 _I guess yours came earlier_ , she thinks bitterly. “Yes mom,” she says.

“I don’t trust him,” says Alice, glancing at the ceiling, tapping her nails against the table. “I want you to start locking your door at night. He is a Jones after all.”

Betty has to fight very hard to keep a straight face. “Okay,” she manages.

Alice sighs, passing a hand over her forehead. “Truthfully now, Betty. Tell me about Reggie Mantle.”

“Truthfully, mom?” she says. “Reggie is _scum_.”

 

* * *

 

When Betty is finally allowed to go upstairs, Alice is having a heated argument with Reggie’s mother over the phone. All in all, it could definitely have been worse, she thinks as she sinks down on the bed. Out of habit, she reaches for her phone before remembering it’s with Alice. She bites her lip, wondering whether she could risk knocking on Jughead’s door. In the end she decides to leave her window open and hope for the best, then heads for the bathroom.

She stays in the shower until she can barely see the exhaust fan for all the steam, attempting to wash away the sweat, the hairspray, and the cringeworthy highlights from the night flashing through her mind, time and time again. Her mother at the kitchen table, the tears on Veronica’s cheeks, Dilton with his iPad, the masked crowd, staring at her across the dancefloor. Eventually she’s been over the images so many times that they start to lose any meaning, leaving her feeling numb.

She towels her hair dry and puts on a t-shirt and sweatpants. As she rubs moisturizer on her face, she looks herself in the mirror. It’s still her, Betty Cooper, and no matter how much time she spends overthinking tonight, those things will still have happened, and it’ll still be the same face looking back at her the next morning, and the morning after that.

 _Suck it up and live it down_ , she tells herself. Realistically, she knows Jughead is right. Drama like this lasts a few weeks at the longest. She’s far from the first girl to suffer a sticky maple, and once the election is over and done with, Veronica might see things differently. If she’s honest with herself, the thing that gets to Betty the most is the way Cheryl outmaneuvered her, playing her like a fiddle, making her bring about her own downfall. And all while managing to secure that election win. If only Betty could prove that this had been Cheryl’s doing all along...

“Leave it,” she says warningly to her reflection as she tugs a brush through her damp hair.

When she comes back to her room, the night light on her desk is lit and Jughead is sitting on her bed in the semi-darkness. Apart from the jacket and tie he’s still in his prom attire, and in spite of everything, the sight of him still makes her breath stutter.

“Hey,” he says, getting to his feet. “The window was open, so...”

“That was the plan,” she says. “I wanted to say sorry. About mom.”

He shrugs. “Could have been worse. What about you? You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”

 _She will be_. Safe in that knowledge, she firmly puts her worries aside for the moment, because the boy in front of her is too enticing to ignore. She does what she’s been longing to do all evening and steps closer to slide her fingers under his suspenders, then pulls at them until he’s flush against her. When they kiss, it’s intense in a way that goes straight to her core, igniting something within her.

“Stay here tonight,” she says, brushing her lips across his jawline before planting a kiss on his neck.

“What about your mom?” he asks, closing his eyes and tipping his head to the side to accommodate her.

“Mom has no clue. Half an hour ago she was willing to believe I was dating _Reggie Mantle_.”

Jughead stiffens a little and looks down at her gravely. “He _is_ the captain of the football team.”

“He’s the captain of the idiot brigade,” says Betty emphatically and skims her hand down his chest.

“Well, in that case,” he says and kisses her again.

Hands on her hips, he backs up against the bed until he can sit down. He holds her there, between his knees, running his hands up under her t-shirt, reaching around to trace patterns on her back. It’s a soothing touch, and Betty sighs, eyes fluttering shut while she absent-mindedly runs her fingers through his hair. When his hands circle around to her stomach again, Jughead turns her top up to kiss her there, just below her bellybutton. Then again, and again, lower still each time. It makes something stir inside her, makes her breath come in shallow gasps.

“Ow,” Jughead murmurs, and Betty realises she’s been tugging at his hair.

“Sorry,” she whispers, disentangling her fingers.

When he looks up at her with an amused smile she takes the opportunity to distract him by bending down and kissing him until he flops back on the bed, pulling her down with him, their noses bumping together as they crash on top of the covers.

“Ouch,” Betty whines.

“Even-steven,” says Jughead, playfully pushing her over until he’s the one looking down at her.

For a while they simply revel in kissing and touching, in finding their rhythm. By now they must have shared a thousand kisses, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever grow tired of them, hot or sweet, slow or urgent. When she reaches down to touch him through his pants he hums against her mouth, squeezing her hip gently before slipping his own hand down her sweatpants.

Betty sighs, dropping her head back in anticipation. He’s made her come like this at least half a dozen times now, each one better than the last, and as he starts caressing her slowly she has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from raising her hips to meet his hand. By the time he pushes her panties aside to feel her she’s already embarrassingly wet, and he sucks a surprised breath in.

“It’s your fault,” she murmurs, looking away.

“Actually I think that means I’m doing something right,” he says, carefully using his fingers on her, and when she dares to look at him again he’s looking back with a fascinated smile.

And yes, everything he does feels right, but she wants…something. She wants to feel his skin against hers, she thinks vaguely. More than that, she wants to know what it would feel like to have him inside her. That realization makes her shudder, a low whimper escaping her.

“Betty,” Jughead says then, his voice breaking a little.

“Yes?” _Yes_ , she thinks. _Yes, let’s do it, right now_.

“I want to try something.”

“What?” she asks, even though she _knows_.

“This,” he says, kissing her softly, swiping his tongue across hers. “But...here,” he goes on, using his fingers to circle her clit.

 _Oh_. Betty’s whole body seizes up in a sudden flash of anxiety, and Jughead’s hand grows still.

“Only if you want to,” he says quickly.

Her heart speeds up as she grapples with how she actually feels about this. She knows it’s meant to be good. Very good. The most unnerving thing about it is the thought of him _seeing_ her. The room is dim, but still. She knows what her thighs look like up close and flattened on the bed, and she knows what she looks like down _there_. As for the taste, the smell… At least she’s fresh from the shower. But. _Still_.

“You don’t have to,” she says, her mouth suddenly very dry.

Jughead sighs softly, then shuffles up until he’s kneeling beside her. “I’m the one asking, okay?” he says.

“Okay,” says Betty weakly.

He cocks his head and frowns. “Okay as in...okay you got that or okay let’s try, or...?”

 _Oh god. Oh_ god. She licks her lips and tries to swallow. “Both,” she says. “If you want to.”

There was never going to be an elegant way of removing the sweatpants, but Jughead helps her shimmy them down and toss them aside. Because it seems unreasonable to lie there naked from the waist down, and because Jughead has seen her topless before and she’s at least eighty percent positive he enjoyed it, she pulls her t-shirt off as well. It then strikes her as a tremendous injustice that he’s still fully dressed, especially when he sits back for a second to take her in.

“What?” she asks, shyly crossing her arms to cover her breasts.

“Just…” he says.

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales sharply, then leans down to kiss her stomach. He presses his lips to her hip next, and then her thigh, her knee, and the light kisses are almost enough to distract her from the fact that he’s also pulling her panties down as he goes.

“This isn’t fair,” she says, feeling her cheeks heat up.

“What isn’t?” he asks, letting her underwear join her sweatpants on the floor.

She doesn’t have any hands left to cover herself with, so she pulls her legs up to hide the worst of it. “I’m... _super_ naked and you’re not,” she says.

Without a word, Jughead twists out of his suspenders and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Betty can’t help but edge back onto the pillows to watch him, and for a moment she forgets to be self-conscious when the sight of his bare chest sends happy butterflies fluttering through her belly. Once he’s added the shirt to the growing pile on the floor he crouches down by her feet, hands on her knees.

“You okay?” he asks, running a hand down her calf.

“Yeah,” says Betty. “It’s just… You can see _everything_.”

“That certainly is one of the benefits,” he says seriously, managing to drawing a shaky laugh from her.

After a second’s hesitation she slides her legs down on either side of him, shivering slightly when he rests his hands on her thighs. Betty feels like she’s never been more aware of her every single imperfection, but the look on Jughead’s face as he slowly caresses her legs and hips is one of reverence, as though her body is something to admire, to worship.

“Just tell me if you want to stop,” he says before easing himself down between her knees.

He kisses her low on the belly once, twice, and before she has the time to start worrying for real, the cool sensation of his mouth against her sex makes her jerk up off the pillows.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, fumbling for the covers, desperate for something to hold on to. “No, don’t stop, it’s fine,” she says quickly when Jughead pulls his head up to give her a worried glance.

It _is_ good, she thinks once she's recovered enough to sink back down on the pillows. It’s better than good, the feeling of his tongue on her reigniting her desire and building it up until she’s squirming restlessly on the bed. He’s taking his time, exploring her excruciatingly slowly, and Betty wonders if he even realizes just how much she’s aching for more. She drags her palms across the sheets, stretches her arms back to brace herself against the headboard before finally reaching down for Jughead, burying her fingers in his hair. He moans against her and lets her guide him until he’s focusing his attention on her clit, and soon she’s twisting his hair around her fingers, completely at his mercy.

When she comes, he holds on to her, letting her ride it out against his mouth until she finally relaxes into the sheets, boneless and flushed. Then he crawls up to join her, breathing nearly as hard as she does, pressing kisses haphazardly to her arm and neck.

“That was amazing,” she murmurs.

“Mm-hm,” he hums in agreement, as if somehow he found it just as enjoyable.

And as he cuddles up close, dancing his fingers across her shoulder, she can feel him, feel how hard he is. She turns on her side and reaches down to sweep her hand across the front of his suit pants, making him groan and chuckle softly.

“Did you _like_ doing it?” she asks, a smile spreading across her face.

“I thought that was obvious,” he says, eyes flitting down between them.

The whole idea is so wonderfully baffling to her that she lets out a short laugh. Then she remembers what Veronica said outside Ms. Stonewall’s office, about making sure a guy likes going down on you, and…

“Jughead…” she says, fingering the waistband of his pants.

“Yeah?”

His eyes are glittering in the half-light, his face close enough for her to feel his hot breath on her cheek, close enough to kiss. And then the question just slips out.

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

His hand pauses mid-caress on her arm, and even though she was barely nervous at all just two seconds ago, Betty can feel her heart pounding hard as he holds her gaze.

“You mean right now?” he says.

“Yeah. Or, you know, in general. But yeah, now.” When he doesn’t answer immediately, she goes on. “We don’t have to, of course. Like I said, what you did was...amazing. And I could–”

“Yes,” he says firmly, cutting her off.

“Yes?”

“ _Yes_.”

When Jughead moves to kiss her hungrily she can taste herself on his tongue, and it’s somehow not as strange as she might have thought. She fumbles to unbutton his pants, feeling his hand grope briefly at a breast before he stops suddenly.

“Shit,” he curses in a low voice. “We need, uh…I don’t have a–”

“In my bag,” says Betty. “It’s on the desk.”

He kisses her once more before climbing unsteadily off the bed to rummage around in the bag. Betty shivers suddenly, even though the room is pleasantly warm. She takes the opportunity to get under a blanket, which doesn’t seem to help at all. Jughead pads back to the bed and makes quick work of his pants, and Betty tries her best not to be too obvious when she sneaks a look at him pulling down his boxers before joining her under the covers, tossing the condom on the pillows. Even though she keeps being on the verge of trembling with nerves, Betty scoots closer, and he shifts to lie on his side, propped up on his arm and looking down at her.

“You sure about this?” he asks, pushing some hair out of her eyes.

“Yeah, of course,” she says.

It’s true. She’s never wanted it more, has never felt more ready, and yet she’s shivering again, to the point where her fingers are shaking visibly when she trails them down Jughead’s chest.

“Are you nervous?” he asks and takes her hand, steadying it.

“A little,” she admits.

“Yeah, well. Me too.”

Betty frowns. “You are? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Probably a guy thing,” Jughead says. “All those years spent repressing emotions finally paying off.”

“Shut up,” she says, slapping his arm lightly before pulling him down for a kiss.

They keep kissing until Betty relaxes a little, until she can truly cherish the feeling of his skin against hers as he presses close. It’s a thrilling kind of touch, reminding her of summer camp between eighth and ninth grade where the girls had the sudden idea to take a night swim without their swimsuits. To this day, Betty remembers how the soft sensation of the water against her most intimate parts was unlike anything she’d ever felt before, awakening some dim, uncertain lust in her. Now, next to Jughead, the softness is the same, but her desire is hot and strong and with a clear purpose. She snakes her hand down between them, gasping softly when she feels how hard he is.

“Wait,” he groans, pushing her hand away.

He reaches up to grab the condom and they spend a few awkward seconds in silence as he fumbles with it under the covers. Betty lies back on the pillows, and once he’s done, she pulls on his arm, urging him to move on top of her.

“Can we just…” he says, holding a hand up.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks away and snorts. “Nothing. I just… Are you sure you’re ready?”

“I think so.”

He moves his hand down between her legs, touching her carefully. Betty is still sensitive from her orgasm and hisses as he slips a finger part-way inside her. Jughead makes a strangled noise, then drags his teeth along her collarbone and without much effort presses the finger deeper still. There can be no doubt as to how ready she is.

“See?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” he breathes, but doesn’t let up.

He lets a second finger join the first and slowly works her into such a state that her breath becomes ragged and uneven, until her thighs tremble and she comes apart again.

“This wasn’t the plan,” Betty says, panting hard and pushing her sweat-damp hair back as her climax subsides.

“It kinda was,” says Jughead and gently pulls his hand away.

“No,” she says. She tugs at his arm again, and this time he moves up and settles between her legs. “This was.”

“Yeah, but–” he kisses her neck.

“What?” Betty asks. She's still dazed and tingling all over, but she doesn't want to wait any longer, so she rolls her hips up teasingly.

Jughead winces and drops his forehead to her shoulder. “Nothing,” he says. “It's nothing.”

And finally he shifts, propping himself up on one arm and reaching down between them with the other to help guide him right. It's different from his fingers; intense, but by no means unbearable. Betty holds her breath as he pushes into her, slowly, slowly. She waits for a sting, for that sharp pain she's read about, but she only feels a tightness that gradually fills her up until it's almost but not quite overwhelming. And then he stops moving, breathing hard against her temple, and she realizes that this is it. He's fully inside of her, and it was all so easy she almost wants to laugh.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, grinning with relief to herself.

Jughead pulls back his head to look at her. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yes!” says Betty, and despite her best efforts to hold it back, a giggle bubbles up and escapes her. Jughead looks slightly hurt by that, so she tilts her chin up to kiss him. “I'm good. It's good.”

It's already much better than what she expected from a first time, and now she's eager to explore the possibilities. She pulls her hips away a little, and then rocks back again.

“Woah, woah,” says Jughead, and she stops.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and takes a deep breath. Then he starts moving cautiously, and to Betty’s amazement, this too feels perfectly fine and not uncomfortable at all. Once again, she drives her hips up to meet him, and once again he pauses.

“ _Betty_ ,” he says in a pained voice

He looks at her pleadingly, and she suddenly understands that he’s trying his best to make this last a little longer.

“It’s okay,” she says, squeezing his arm. “We can do it again.”

“Again,” he repeats, and Betty’s unsure if it’s a question or not.

“Tomorrow, or… I don’t know how long you need to, you know…” She waves her hand indistinctly. “I mean, if you want to.” _She_ wants to. She hopes he does, too.

He doesn’t answer her, but instead kisses her fiercely and pushes into her more forcefully. Experimentally, she hikes a leg up along his side to give them more room, and the new angle feels not just fine, but good. She _likes_ doing this, she realizes, and her heart soars with the thought of how great it might become with a bit of practice. Without thinking, she grinds against him again, her lips parting in a low moan, and when he freezes this time, it’s different. He glances at her miserably before burying his face against her neck and shuddering inside her.

“ _God_ ,” he groans, and drives into her again and again, murmuring obscenities into her hair.

When Jughead rolls off her, Betty is still in a daze of happiness and dull, pounding arousal. While she catches her breath, trying to grasp just how well it all went, he sits up to get rid of the condom. Afterwards, he lies down and silently drags his hands down his face. When Betty turns on her side and runs her fingers up his arm, he looks away stubbornly.

“Sorry,” he says quietly.

Betty knits her brows in confusion. “What? Why?”

He sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “Because I clearly have no self-control.”

She scoots up, leaning over him until they’re face to face, and when he turns away again she puts two fingers on his chin, forcing him to look at her.

“You’re an idiot, Jughead Jones,” she says seriously. “Also, I want to do it again. How soon can we do it again?”

He gazes at her silently for a second or two and then crushes his lips against hers, kissing her desperately.

As it turns out, she doesn’t have to wait for very long.

 


	21. Undercover Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your invaluable feedback, Nimmie and Raptor <3<3<3

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper’s reckless streak._

_I’d be flattering myself if I claimed to be the sole catalyst for the chaos in Betty’s life those weeks in April and May, but I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I said I played some small part in it._

_Betty once told me she sometimes gets so angry that it frightens her. It felt like a test, like she was pushing me to see if I would fold, or run. She had kept her rage inside, letting it seethe and fester, but to me, anger had never been something to hide away, no matter how frightening. More often than not, to frighten someone had been the very point._

_Perhaps she'd been holding her anger in for so long that it had started seeping through the well-stitched Northside seams?_

_Perhaps Betty had been looking for a way out of that prison of perfection, and perhaps she saw something like a key in me._

 

* * *

 

When Betty stirs from sleep, it’s to the sound of her mother pounding on the door.

No, she thinks, eyes still too heavy to pry open. Not _the_ door. _A_ door.

_Polly’s door_ , Betty decides.

Relieved, she starts drifting off again until she suddenly realizes that it’s not Polly’s name that Alice is calling, it’s–

“Jughead,” she whispers breathlessly as she sits bolt upright.

She whips her head around and there he is, lying belly down next to her. He looks utterly serene, the sun filtering through the leaves of the tree outside the window, dancing across his back and over his hair. There’s hints of chestnut in that mess of black that she’s never noticed before. Then the dull thuds from next door start again, and Betty reaches over to shake him gently.

“Jughead,” she hisses again. “Mom's banging on your door.”

He groans, and then turns on his back to squint up at her.

“Hey,” he says, voice gravelly with sleep.

He's got pillow marks on his cheek, and he reaches up to run his fingers lazily over her arm. For some reason Betty's brain decides that this is the perfect moment to inform her that she's well and truly in love. It’s like a blow to her gut, filling her with a sweet, nervous aching. Because she feels like she might implode with emotion if she doesn’t do it, she leans down to kiss him. She means for it to be brief, but his mouth is soft and inviting, so she lets her lips linger, breathing in the warm scent of him.

“Elizabeth!”

This time the knocks are loud and clear and on her door, followed by a violent rattling of the handle. Jughead gives Betty a bewildered look, then scrambles off the bed and starts rummaging through the pile of clothes on the floor.

“Just a second!” Betty calls while pulling on her t-shirt. “Go, go,” she adds under her breath to Jughead who's struggling to slide the window open with one arm, his shirt and pants bunched up under the other.

When Betty opens the door, Alice looks ready to spontaneously combust.

“Is he in here?” she says, pushing Betty aside to sweep her gaze around the room.

“What are you talking about?” says Betty, rubbing at an eye in an attempt to look appropriately dazed.

“That Southside skulk,” says Alice, swinging the door back to peek behind it.

“You mean Jughead?” says Betty, feigning confusion all while her heart is hammering nervously at her throat. “Why would he be in here? I locked the door like you told me, so...”

Alice lets out an explosive breath and passes a hand over her forehead.

“I can't _believe_ it. That slippery little snake must have snuck out the window.”

Then she whirls around at the sound of another door creaking open. Both Alice and Betty hurry out into the corridor where a bleary-eyed Jughead is poking his head out from his room.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

Alice narrows her eyes suspiciously. “I have been knocking on your door for several _minutes_ , junior,” she says, striding towards him, a finger raised accusingly.

“I didn't hear anything,” he says, backing away. “I sleep with my headphones in, okay?”

For a couple of seconds Alice seems to be fumbling for words, then huffs in exasperation. “Well get dressed lazybones, the lawn wants mowing!” she says and ushers Jughead back inside his room, ignoring his disgruntled protests.

Then she turns to Betty again. “Why aren’t you dressed yet? We’re leaving for school in twenty minutes!”

“You took away my phone,” Betty reminds her. “I couldn’t set an alarm even if I wanted to. Which I don’t, because I’m not _going_ –”

“Oh yes you are, Elizabeth,” says Alice hotly. “Waldo told me all about your selfless little sacrifice, and I’m not having it. I won’t have you alone in this house with that…” she motions at Jughead’s door. “ _That_. You’re going to school if it means I have to _drag_ you to class.”

“No thanks,” mutters Betty and pushes past her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asks Alice, grabbing her wrist.

“To have a shower, mom!” Betty snaps. She yanks her arm free. “Why, do you need to check for Serpents behind the towel rack first?”

She doesn’t wait for a reply but hurries inside the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

In the shower, she finally finds some time to reflect on things, and under the hot stream of water her mind races back and forth between joy and despair. On the one hand, the memory of last night makes her whole body tingle with elation. She would be prepared to think it was all a dream, but the fact that she just woke up next to a fully undressed Jughead combined with the dull, hot ache between her legs leaves no doubt that yes, _that_ did happen.

_Twice_.

Thinking about it only serves to intensify the heat at her core, making her squirm briefly. The way she craves it is almost unsettling, but _god_. Even though she’s a little sore she’d do it again, _right now_ , if she had the chance.

Which brings her to the despair, because while they may have managed to escape Alice’s clutches this morning, it’s becoming increasingly clear that they won’t be able to hide forever. Her mom’s going to be a hawk around the house from now on, and half the school already knows they’re…dating?

Betty squeezes the bottle of conditioner so hard she accidentally ends up with two weeks’ worth of the stuff in her hand. She scoops a more reasonable amount out to use and lets the rest join the shampoo suds on the floor. As the gooey mass slips down the drain, the questions start to pile up. Is Jughead her boyfriend now? Does he think of her as his girlfriend? How do you even define these things? She can’t really see herself asking his opinion on the whole thing, so surely that’s a sign that they’re in fact _not_ an item _per se_.

Surely you know when you know. Right?

Her fretting is interrupted by Alice banging on the bathroom door, yelling at her to hurry up. Although she wants nothing more than to spend the day with Jughead, preferably working on cementing their relationship status, Betty has no choice but to get dressed and ready for school. She barely has the time to grab a banana on her way through the living room, and as she joins her mother in the car she throws a wistful glance at Jughead who’s hauling the lawnmower from the garage.

It's not until she's reaching back to put her seatbelt on that Betty notices something strange about the car. Or, more to the point, that it's not their car at all.

“What happened to the car?” she asks, looking around her at the unfamiliar interior. It's an interior that's definitely seen better days.

“Oh, it's a replacement while the other one is at the shop,” says Alice, pumping away at a manual choke lever.

“Mom, this is a _wreck_ ,” says Betty incredulously.

“It's temporary,” Alice says as the engine chugs and whines before finally revving up to start.

Betty frowns. There's been so much stuff going on lately that she hasn't given it much thought, but now the question of the state of their finances hits her again.

“You sold the car,” she says bluntly.

“No,” says Alice with a snort. “It’s just a temporary trade-in.”

“Okay,” says Betty slowly. “Was it by any chance the kind of trade-in that frees up extra cash?” When her mother doesn’t reply, Betty goes on. “I’ve got some money saved up from my internship if–”

“It’s temporary!” Alice snaps in a voice that puts an end to the conversation.

 

* * *

 

Her mom drops her off well ahead of class, but the school is already in full election prep mode. Red white and blue balloon arches are being assembled, campaign flyers are littered through the corridors, and the prom posters have been replaced with row upon row of pop art style portraits of Cheryl Blossom. Betty has a feeling the people she pass are staring at her, so she keeps her head down and makes for her locker where she finds Kevin waiting. When he spots her, he rushes forward with a relieved look on his face.

“My god, Betty, I was starting to think you and Jughead had skipped town!” he says, hugging her tight. “Why haven't you been answering my texts? I tried skyping, calling, emailing, you name it.”

“Mom,” says Betty simply. “Phone, laptop, WiFi access - she took it all.”

Kevin gasps. “She didn't!”

“She literally drove me here and waited in the car to make sure I went inside. I wasn’t planning on going. Not with what happened yesterday, and not as long as Jughead’s suspended, but...”

Betty looks around uncertainly. There’s one thing she’s avoided thinking about even more than the rest, but now that she’s here after all, she’ll have to deal with it. She takes a deep breath.

“Is Veronica here yet?”

“She's taking a couple of days off to regroup,” says Kevin delicately. Then he lowers his voice. “Between you and me, I don’t think she could stand being here knowing that Cheryl is going to win. Also, I think she was hoping you'd reach out…”

Betty groans quietly. “ _Crap_. Could you let her know why I didn’t?”

“Of course–” Kevin begins, but stops himself, his eyes widening at something behind her. “Uh-oh. Double, double toil and trouble.”

Somehow, Betty can tell from Kevin’s face alone who’s coming down the corridor, but she throws a glance over her shoulder all the same. It’s even worse than she expected. It’s not just Cheryl, but Cheryl and _Reggie_. The sight of them striding down the hall like they’re royalty makes Betty sick to her stomach.

“Ugh, I can’t do this,” she says, grabbing Kevin’s arm and hauling him inside the nearest classroom. “What’s he _doing_ here? He should be suspended.”

“I know,” says Kevin. “Apparently there’s a quote-unquote ‘ongoing investigation’ about the Instagram post. He says he was hacked.”

Betty suddenly feels exhausted. Like she could easily go back to bed and sleep until the start of summer break.

“Right,” she says, closing her eyes briefly. Then she shakes her head, trying to get a grip on herself. “What about the fight? Everyone knows he started it.”

“It was his word against Jughead’s,” says Kevin. “And mine against Moose’s and Archie’s against Chuck’s…”

“Okay, okay, I get it.”

“...and now he’s running as Cheryl’s veep.”

Betty blinks a couple of times, and then wonders why she’s even surprised. Because _of course_ he’s running with Cheryl. _Captains stick together_ , his words from weeks back echo in her head. She hikes her bag up on her shoulder and looks around the classroom. In just over an hour, she’ll be back here for her Physics class. With Cheryl.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Kevin,” says Betty. “Not today. But if mom finds out I'm skipping class...”

“Want me to cover for you?”

“Is that even possible?”

Kevin shrugs. “Hernandez is totally reasonable and you’re a model student, Betts. He’ll understand. And Haggly,” he says, glancing over at the empty desk at the front, “is still handing around that list of names and I honestly doubt she’s even aware of what year it is half of the time. I’ll fake your signature. Classes are cancelled after lunch for the election, but third period we’ve got Simpkins.”

“Simpkins,” Betty echoes hollowly.

Kevin lets out a slow breath, tapping his fingers on the folder in his arms. “Dentist’s appointment?” he suggests.

“I owe you one,” she says, pulling him into a hug.

Before they leave the classroom, Kevin puts a hand on her arm.

“I realize you probably had, you know, a lot on your plate last night, but–” he says, and then hesitates, regarding her curiously. “You look tired, Betty. Did anything…happen?”

She glances aside involuntarily, and when Kevin makes a choked little noise she knows he knows.

“Um,” she hesitates, feeling her cheeks heat up.

“Betty!” he hisses, then slaps her arm lightly. “On prom night! What a total cliché! So, spill! Was it as terrible as you suspected?”

“No,” she says firmly, and when he gasps again, she can’t help but grin at him.

“Bad boys do it well,” says Kevin sagely.

“Kev…”

He holds the door open for her. “Just roll with it, Betty,” he says. “I’m speaking from experience here. You’re dating a gang member and you’re in for a ride. _Literally_.”

 

* * *

 

Betty slips out through the back entrance just as the bell rings. It's a balmy morning, but even though it's a pleasant walk back to Elm Street, she hurries towards her house. When she spots the lawnmower leaning against a tree with Jughead nowhere in sight she's struck by an irrational fear that he's left the house, but his motorcycle is parked in the driveway and the front door is ajar, so she jogs up the steps and inside.

Jughead is standing by the sink, drinking straight from the tap. He's stripped off his shirt and beanie, down to jeans and a white tank top, and the way Betty’s body immediately reacts to the whole scene is frankly embarrassing.

“Hey there,” she says, making him flinch.

“I didn't hear you,” he says, turning the tap off and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “What are you doing here?”

The last thing Betty wants is to go over the whole thing with Reggie and Cheryl again, so she tells him the one other thing that pops into her head.

“I missed you.”

Jughead gives her a look of amused disbelief. “That much, huh?”

While it’s not the only reason, it’s not untrue either and now Betty feels an intense need to prove it. She steps closer and loops her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss.

“Yes,” she whispers against his lips before taking his hand and leading him up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, as they’re washing the dishes after lunch, there’s a loud thumping on the front door followed by a long, angry ring of the bell. Betty and Jughead share a confused glance.

“It’s definitely not mom,” says Betty.

“Maybe it’s Latetia,” says Jughead doubtfully.

Jughead goes to answer it while Betty lingers by the staircase in case it’s someone who might tell Alice that she’s been skipping school. As soon as he’s opened the door, Jughead is practically bowled over by Toni Topaz, Sweet Pea and Fangs Fogarty.

“It’s alive!” says Fangs, motioning at Jughead with a grin. “I _told_ you guys, he's just shacked up with his girl. No need for an intervention.”

“What’s with the radio silence?” says Toni, arms crossed.

“Dude, we thought you were dead,” says Sweet Pea, shoving Jughead roughly before pulling him into an even rougher hug.

“Or worse, fully indoctrinated,” says Fangs and winks at Betty who’s still hesitating by the stairs.

“Come on in, guys,” says Betty then, stepping forward to show them inside.

While Jughead explains why he’s been unreachable, Betty brings out ice tea and snacks. Just like the time they went to the White Wyrm, it strikes her how little she really knows about Jughead’s past and friends, and just like before, it sets her on edge. She shouldn’t be like this she knows, but she can’t help but feel excluded when they immediately launch into a discussion about the rivaling gangs on the Southside.

“The whole west end has fallen,” says Sweet Pea grimly. “The Ghoulies used to stick to the far side of Lorimer, but now? Hastings and Wabash is flooded with coke, JJ, you name it.”

“Why now?” asks Jughead.

“They know we’re weak,” says Toni. “With FP in jail and the snakecharmer MIA, that Isaiah is pushing the boundaries with everything he’s got.”

“They’ve set up shop in the abandoned gas station and they’re eating the Southside up, one corner at a time,” says Fangs.

Jughead gets to his feet, pacing a few steps. “Why isn’t Tall Boy doing anything? He got what he wanted. He’s in charge of the Serpents, and now he’s throwing it all away?”

Toni and Sweet Pea share a glance. “He’s telling us to lay low. Says he’s finding a diplomatic solution, but…” Toni starts.

“But what?”

“There’s rumbling in the ranks,” says Sweet Pea. “And not just among us young Serpents. A lot of the old guard are starting to think Tall Boy is doing them dirty. They want FP back.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Jughead snorts.

“People are holding out their caps, rustling up money for FP’s bail,” says Fangs gravely.

Jughead snaps around to look at him. “ _What?_ Bail is set to a hundred and fifty thousand!”

“He’s a Jones,” says Toni. “And we’re not far off the goal.”

There’s an almost feverish look on Jughead’s face when he speaks next. “How much more do we need?”

“Less than half,” says Sweet Pea.

“A third, maybe,” Toni agrees. She sips her ice tea and clears her throat. “There’s a secret rally this afternoon, down at the quarry. If _another_ Jones was there, maybe said a few words, it would go a long way.”

The quick grin that flashes across Jughead’s face makes Betty’s belly churn uncomfortably. “We're on house arrest,” she blurts out, and the Serpents all turn to look at her.

“There's bigger things at stake,” says Jughead patiently, as though he's explaining something to a child.

Betty fiddles with her straw, thinking frantically. If they're not at home when Alice gets back, that's going to be the end of things. “A hundred and fifty thousand dollars is insane, you guys,” she says. “We practically know FP is innocent, right? Why not try to prove that instead?”

“How?” Sweet Pea scoffs.

“This Isaiah you keep talking about…” she says uncertainly.

“Betty, no,” says Jughead firmly. “There's no reasoning with the Ghoulies.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of investigating,” says Betty, but the conversation has already moved on.

“We're meeting in a couple of hours but we were thinking of knocking on a few doors before then,” says Fangs. “Round up some stragglers.”

“Of course,” says Jughead. “I'll get my jacket.”

When he heads upstairs, Betty follows him hurriedly.

“We need to be back before mom gets home,” she says, hovering by his door.

“I'll do my best,” says Jughead, shrugging his jacket on.

“Okay,” says Betty, wringing her hands. “Let me get a sweater and-”

“This is Serpent business,” he says, not unkindly.

She frowns. “What?”

Jughead sighs and walks up to her. Then he cups her cheek and smiles sadly. “Thank you, Betty. I mean it. I need to do this for dad, but there's no point in getting us both in trouble.”

He gives her a soft kiss, and then he's gone, leaving Betty with a cold, sinking feeling in her gut.

She watches them from her bedroom window, Toni and Jughead on their own bikes and Fangs riding with Sweet Pea.

What would her life have been like if she'd been born a Southsider, she wonders. Would she have known Jughead? Dated him? Would she have been a Serpent like she thinks Alice once was?

Her eyes fall on the bottom drawer of her desk, and slowly, an idea starts forming in her head.

 

* * *

 

The jacket is sturdy and stiff and feels more like a piece of armor than an item of clothing. Not that it would stop a bullet or even deflect a stab, but Betty feels safer with its weight on her shoulders. _Stronger._ Coupled with her loose hair and harsh eyeliner, the jacket puts a certain spring of confidence in her step.

_You can't dress up as a gang member_ , Jughead had said when he saw her wearing it.

Well, tough. She just did and it's _working_. The Southsiders seem to pay her little notice as she makes her way towards Lorimer Street. By some she's avoided, by others ignored, but the further west she goes, the more she can feel people stealing glances.

Fangs had mentioned an old gas station, and from the maps she’s consulted at home, she’s getting close. When she rounds a corner she comes face to face with a group of young men wearing more eyeliner than she is, and who seem to have a definite penchant for skull motifs. _Ghoulies_. A chill runs down Betty’s spine but, she tells herself, it’s in the middle of the day, the sun is shining bright overhead and she’s a free woman in a free country. She doesn’t stop or hesitate when she strides past them with her head held high.

“What’s a pretty little snake like you doing in the Graveyard,” one of the Ghoulies call after her.

Betty doesn’t reply, but when she hears footsteps following she speeds up and veers off her route to turn another corner. Luck has it that she comes across a convenience store with its door open, and she hurries inside and rounds a shelf, peering out from behind it until she sees the gang glance inside and then move on. When she steps out into the cramped aisle she notices the shop owner staring at her. He’s small and rotund, a few greasy strands of hair combed over his shiny bald spot, and he looks at her as though she’s holding him at gunpoint.

“I don’t want trouble,” he says.

Betty frowns. “Of course not. I’m just…” she looks around quickly and grabs a pack of gum and slaps it on the counter “...buying this.”

She reaches into her pocket for money and the shop owner flinches and then visibly relaxes when she slowly pulls out a dollar bill. Maybe the jacket was a mistake after all, Betty thinks as he rings her up.

From then on, she sticks to the back streets and takes care to avoid being seen by Ghoulies until she finally spots the derelict gas station. Sneaking round the back of it, she looks for a suitable window to peek through. There’s one high up on the wall, and she precariously scales the pile of wooden pallets underneath it and stands on her tiptoes to peer inside. No luck. The window is superbly grimy, and anyway, some kind thick cloth is covering the inside.

“Ms. Peabody?” comes a voice from somewhere below her.

Betty whips around, barely suppressing a shriek. On the ground behind her is a Ghoulie, eyeing her cautiously. He’s a scrawny thing about her age, and he’s wearing at least twice the amount of eyeliner.

“We’ve been expecting you,” he says, licking his lips nervously. “But the entrance is around the front…”

“Of course,” says Betty and straightens her jacket before climbing unsteadily down from the pallets.

Her temples are pounding with dull panic, and for a second she considers just making a run for it. Meanwhile, the Ghoulie is looking at her like she’s the one to worry about, and he’s clearly waiting for her to take the lead, so she tosses her hair back and starts walking with as much confidence as she can muster. Peabody, she thinks frantically. Who is she, and why does this guy have Betty confused with her? She must be a Serpent, or maybe an undercover Ghoulie, but surely they would know their own spies? For now, she decides to roll with it. Perhaps she’ll be able to play the part of Penny and find out something useful.

The front of the gas station is burned out and littered with debris. From the look of things, one of the pumps has exploded, leaving the place in ruins. Betty steps through the gaping frame of the broken front door with the young Ghoulie on her heels. It’s even worse inside. The shelves are empty and overturned, the goods likely long looted or destroyed. The only source of light is the shattered shop front, and the farther inside she walks, the darker it gets. Broken glass crunches under her sneakers, and when a rat scurries across the floor only a few feet away, she nearly jumps out of her skin.

“Isaiah?” calls the Ghoulie. “Penny Peabody is here to see you.”

“Finally,” rasps an indistinct voice over the PA system. “Come on in, Penny.”

Betty’s palms are sweaty now, and she tries desperately to think of a strategy. Keep it as vague as possible, she reasons. Maybe Isaiah won’t know her face either. Perhaps Penny is a recent turncoat, and they’ve set up an initial meeting that Betty happened to stumble across? That’s probably it, she thinks, a small wave of hope washing over her.

Then her thoughts are interrupted when the empty soda fridge ahead of them suddenly starts moving, screeching across the floor as it swings aside to reveal a hidden passage. It’s even darker down there, and Betty hesitates until the Ghoulie behind her clears his throat delicately.

“This way,” he says.

The narrow corridor is mercifully short and soon widens into what can only be described as a lair. Dark, dusty drapes cover the walls, weird bone fetishes dangle from the ceiling, a tattered couch with a skull print in the corner sags under the weight of three Ghoulies in heavy makeup, and the flickering light of two massive candelabra make shadows dance across the floor

In the middle of the room stands a mahogany highback chair adorned with what looks like an entire human skeleton. The armrests are draped with the bones of some poor soul’s arms, the knuckles forming macabre handholds. The legs end in skeletal feet, and a polished skull sits perched atop the headrest. The man sitting in the chair, Betty assumes, is Isaiah.

As she approaches, he leans forward with a frown, his eyes eerily white against the dark marks of makeup around them. Then he glances behind her with a smile on his face.

“Benji, you’re a fucking idiot,” he says cheerfully.

“What?” says the Ghoulie whose name is apparently Benji.

“This isn’t Penny Peabody,” says Isaiah, and Betty goes cold all over. “This is some random chick in a Serpent jacket.” He pauses and looks critically at her. “Some random _Northside_ chick.”

Betty swallows hard. “I’m still here to see you,” she says, trying to buy herself some time. “I’m...looking for someone to do me a favor.”

“That’s a legacy jacket,” says Isaiah, ignoring her. “Where’d you get it?”

“I heard this rumor about how you helped frame that guy down at the station,” Betty presses on, making a wild stab in the hopes of at least getting some information out of him. “That Serpent. I need a favor like that.”

From the way Isaiah freezes for a second, she can tell her shot in the dark hit true.

“Don’t you know what happened the last time a snotty Northsider came around, trying to meddle, asking too many questions?” he says in a low voice.

Now it’s Betty’s turn to seize up. What is he talking about?

“That carrot-top in the football jacket,” Isaiah goes on. “Probably one of your classmates, come to think of it.”

_Archie?_ Betty thinks, bewildered. Then Isaiah motions with his hand towards the couch, and out of the corner of her eye, she can see how one of the men slowly gets to his feet. She tries glancing around for other exits, finding none.

“I’ll take that as a no,” she says with a shaky smile. “I’ll... I’ll just be going then.”

“Not so fast,” says Isaiah, even as she starts backing away. “What’s your name?”

“Ginger,” Betty says, picking the first name that comes to mind. “Ginger Lopez.”

He chuckles at that. “Well, well, _señorita_. You have _got_ to be the blondest Lopez I have ever seen. Get her, boys!”

Benji and another Ghoulie make a grab for her, but Betty is prepared. With all her strength, she shoulders into Benji in a tackle that would have made Archie proud, sending him reeling to the side, and away from the passage he was blocking. Flying forward with adrenaline-fueled strength, Betty makes it back out into the trashed gas station where she scrambles across a toppled-over shelf. Seconds later her sneakers are pounding away at asphalt, but even though she has managed to get a head start her chances of making it back to the Northside - or even Serpent territory - seem frightfully slim.

Since it served her well on her way there, she tries to make her escape down the back roads, and for a brief moment she actually thinks she’s going to make it, because after a while the sounds of her followers grow distant. She risks a glance over her shoulder, and when she can see no one is following her she stops to catch her breath, exhausted and intensely relieved. But her joy is short-lived. When she turns back around, the two Ghoulies are blocking the street ahead.

“Not so fast, little miss fake snake,” says the one who isn’t Benji, walking towards her, breathing hard.

Betty backs away, gearing up for another sprint, but deep down she knows she’s screwed. Then comes the sudden revving of a motorcycle engine from a side street, and a voice that calls out:

“Hey, Uptown! Need a ride?”


	22. The Beginning of the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who are the most amazing people in the world? [Nimmieamee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimmieamee/pseuds/nimmieamee) and [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily), that's who.

 

_Let me tell you about Betty Cooper and me, and the beginning of the end._

_I wouldn’t want to say that she was slipping through my hands those last tumultuous days. That would be implying that I ever had a hold on her, a hold on her heart._

_Stupidly, some not entirely insignificant part of me must have thought I did, because I was somehow shaken to the core when she showed the slightest bit of affection for someone else. And after all, a fling lasting a few weeks can’t begin to compare to, and I quote, ‘a major, major crush. For years’._

_Of course, it wasn’t just that. Although we’d grown close alarmingly fast, our drifting apart had always seemed inevitable to me. And in those final forty-eight hours, we weren’t just drifting, but diving headfirst into waters that we knew, deep down, would leave us on opposite shores._

_As for Betty, she was a river running wild all on her own, and anyone who’s ever tried carrying water in their bare hands knows it’s only a matter of time before it’s all trickled down between your knuckles._

_In the end, it’s easier to just spread your fingers and let it go._

 

* * *

 

Betty clings tightly to Toni as they roar through the Southside, back towards Serpent territory.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Toni shouts over her shoulder.

Betty’s first instinct is to defend herself, to come up with a good reason for landing herself in this mess, but in her stomach the relief of rescue mingles with shame, because honestly, Toni’s right.

Despite everything she’s seen and heard in the past few weeks, she somehow never thought that she’d ever get into trouble in Riverdale - _her Riverdale_ \- on a sunny May afternoon. Yet here she is, having narrowly escaped the clutches of Isaiah and the Ghoulies with the help of Jughead’s ex, no less.

“I was trying to help,” she shouts back uselessly.

Toni shakes her head and swerves past a car, her right hand tugging angrily at the accelerator.

Before long, they’re pulling in to the parking lot of the White Wyrm. Compared to the Graveyard it almost feels like home, the rusty trucks outside no longer intimidating, but familiar and comforting. As soon as Toni has stopped the bike, Betty climbs off. Her legs are trembling, and for some reason tears are rolling down her face. She wipes at them, already feeling herself go blotchy and ugly. Silently, Toni takes her arm, leads her inside the bar and sits her down at a table. While Betty focuses on stifling her sobbing and retaining as much dignity as possible, Toni gets her phone out and starts texting someone.

“How did you know where I was?” Betty asks after a while.

Toni glances up briefly. “Female intuition?” she says with a shrug.

A thought strikes Betty. “Did Jughead…?”

“Tell me to keep an eye on you?” Toni completes her sentence with a smirk. Then she puts her phone down and focuses her attention on Betty. “No, but maybe he should have, right?”

Betty can’t exactly argue with that, so she looks down at her hands, running her fingers across the faint scars on her left palm.

“Honestly though? It’s that jacket of yours,” Toni goes on. “Within five minutes of you stepping foot on the Southside I had four different people texting me about a so-called ‘mysterious blonde’ heading into Ghoulie territory. So, whose is it?”

“This?” Betty says with a sniff, grabbing at the jacket. “It’s... It’s my mom’s.” She figures that when someone has just saved your life, the least you can do is be honest with them.

“Really?” Toni says, quirking an eyebrow. “That’s...unexpected.”

Betty gives a shaky laugh. “Tell me about it.”

Toni leans back in her seat, lost in thought for a few moments. “All right,” she says eventually. “I’ll hold off on passing any immediate judgement on whether or not you’re entitled to that jacket, but for now, you should probably take it off.”

“Of course,” says Betty, shrugging out of it. She smiles stiffly. “Serpents only.”

Toni sighs. “Jug wasn’t trying to exclude you. He was trying to protect you. You know that, right?”

Betty stares at her hands again. She doesn’t know whether to believe Toni or not, doesn’t know if she _wants_ to believe her. Maybe she’s trying to be nice, but _Toni_ clearly doesn’t need protection. Betty doesn’t want to need it either.

“I don’t need–” she starts, but Toni gives Betty an unimpressed look that makes her squirm in her seat. “Yeah, okay,” she says lamely.

“No, I get you, girl,” says Toni. “What you did was stupid, but I get you. And wanting to stick by your guy is a good thing, but…”

“Maybe not walk headfirst into certain death?” says Betty.

“Right, exactly,” says Toni, a smile tugging at her lips. “So, now that we’ve got that straight, did you at least find out something useful down in the Graveyard?”

Betty nods slowly, and the gnawing worry for Archie that she’s been putting on hold returns in full force. “I think so,” she says.

Just then the door to the bar swings open and a thunderous-looking Jughead barges inside, followed by Sweet Pea and Fangs. Sweet Pea is the first to spot Betty, and he immediately homes in on her, striding up to the table.

“What the hell?” he says, slamming his palms down on the table, making both Betty and Toni jump.

Jughead pushes past Sweet Pea, pulls Betty to her feet and into a crushing hug.

“Why, Betty?” he whispers angrily into her hair.

Betty still can't think of a reasonable explanation, so she tells him the same thing she told Toni. “I was trying to help,” she says, voice cracking as tears start welling up again. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Sweet Pea scoffs. “That’s all you’ve got? Jug had to leave fifty people hanging down at the rally, and you’re _sorry_?”

“Knock it off, Sweets,” says Toni. “She’s heard it from me already. Besides, she actually came away with some intel. Right, Betty?”

The Serpents all look expectantly at Betty as she disentangles herself from Jughead. “I don’t know how useful it’s going to be, and…this is going to sound weird, but Isaiah said _Archie_ had been around to ask questions as well.”

“Archie?” says Jughead with a frown.

“Who’s this?” Fangs asks.

“My next door neighbor,” says Betty.

“Great, another bougie blundering around on the Southside,” says Sweet Pea.

But Jughead holds his hand up irritably. “Shut up, Sweet Pea,” he says. “I’m trying to think.” Then he turns to Betty. “How close is Archie to Hiram Lodge?”

Betty gives a confused shrug. “Not at all, as far as I know. I mean, sure, he spent a lot of time at the Pembrooke back when Archie and Veronica were officially dating, but Mr. Lodge seemed mildly inconvenienced by him at best. He never thought Archie was good enough for Ronnie.”

Jughead nods slowly. “What’s more likely? That Archie’s trying to find a way of bringing Hiram Lodge down, or that he’s running his errands to prove himself worthy?”

Betty stares at him, bewildered. “God, neither, I hope!”

“Let’s go ask him,” says Jughead grimly.

“Sorry to interrupt,” says Fangs, leaning in, “but don’t you guys turn into pumpkins or something in, like, half an hour?” He taps at his wrist watch which is showing twenty-five to five.

“Mom,” Betty groans.

“Come on,” says Jughead, pulling her along. “We’ll figure something out.”

Betty follows him, but as they head for the exit she notices someone watching them from a table across the bar. It’s Tyson, Toni’s cousin who they had a run-in with last time Betty was at the White Wyrm. His demeanour doesn’t seem to have improved in the weeks that have passed, and the way his eyes bore into her is enough to make the hairs on her arms stand on end. Then they’re through the door, and her mind starts spinning with thoughts of Alice, Archie and a thousand other things that seem more important than Tyson Topaz.

 

* * *

 

They make it back home just in time to hide their jackets and arrange themselves around some school work at the kitchen table before Alice sweeps through the door.

“What’s going on here?” she says accusingly, striding up to them.

“Homework?” says Betty, motioning at her Algebra book while Jughead studiously copies a quote from _The Great Gatsby_ into a notebook.

“ _Well_ ,” says Alice, folding her arms as though doing homework is something she disapproves intensely of. For a few seconds she seems to actively look for something to complain about, before shaking her hair back and speaking up again.

“I realize that this is coming at the most inopportune time possible, but it can’t be helped. We need to travel to New York to see your father.”

Betty goes cold all over. In the past year, she hasn’t given much thought to Hal Cooper. Hasn’t wanted to, either. Not after what he tried to do to Polly.

“I don’t want to see him,” she says quickly.

“I’m not leaving you here alone,” Alice says. “It’s bad enough that I have to ask Fred Andrews to keep an eye on that good-for-nothing Jones.”

“I’m sitting right here,” says Jughead, glaring at Alice from under his beanie.

Alice ignores him. “We’re leaving, Betty. Pack a change of clothes.”

“I have an algebra test tomorrow!” says Betty, waving the book at her mom. “This morning you practically _dragged_ me to school and now you don’t care?”

“I’ll call you in sick,” says Alice impatiently. “It’s just one night.”

Betty looks her mother straight in the eyes, pleading. “Please, mom. I don’t want to see him.”

There’s a slight twitch in Alice’s cheek, right under her eye, and then she glances away. “ _Fine_. But Jughead is staying with Archie.”

“Have you asked Mr. Andrews about this?” Betty asks.

“Or me,” Jughead mutters under his breath.

“It’s Fred,” says Alice, waving her hand dismissively. “That holier-than-thou prig will jump at any chance to prove himself a better single parent than me.”

Once Alice has screeched out of the driveway, Betty and Jughead give it about forty-five seconds before they scramble up and go over to knock on Archie’s door.

“The more I think about this, the more ridiculous it seems,” Betty mutters while they wait. “I’m thinking it must be some kind of misunderstanding. The Archie I know wouldn’t get involved with…” she nearly says ‘gangs’ before remembering that Jughead is in one, “...Ghoulies.”

“Sometimes you _think_ you know a person,” says Jughead quietly.

“I _know_ Archie,” Betty hisses.

“You know what they say. An honest look, et cetera.”

Just then, Fred Andrews answers the door, raising his eyebrows at them as they fall silent and shuffle to attention.

“Hey Jughead,” he says. “That was quicker than expected. And Betty, too? Alice didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I'm technically not here,” says Betty with a pained smile, hoping Fred will take the hint. “But I need to talk to Archie, Mr. Andrews. It won’t take long.”

“Take as long as you like,” says Fred with a shrug, stepping aside to let them in.

Archie is in his room, frantically flipping through his Algebra book. He barely looks up when they burst through the door.

“Oh, hey Betty, are you here too?” he says distractedly. “Why didn’t you tell me we have a test tomorrow?”

“We don’t,” says Betty quickly. “That was just something I told mom to get her off my back. I didn’t know she was going to tell your dad. Sorry.”

Archie freezes, then shuts the book with a long, slow breath. “Jesus, Betts. I could have wasted all night on that!”

“We do have a test _next_ week,” Betty reminds him, but Archie is already pushing the book away.

“We need to ask you something,” says Jughead then. “You know who the Ghoulies are, right?”

Archie frowns. “Was that that Norwegian band who played in Centerville last Halloween? Wait, no, maybe they were called Ghost…”

“I’m not talking about a band,” says Jughead gravely. “I’m talking about a violent, dangerous, gang on the Southside. Drug dealers. Hardened criminals.”

“Oh, you mean the Southside Serpents?” Archie asks.

Jughead makes a choked noise that he manages to turn into a cough, and Betty quickly takes the rein.

“No, the Ghoulies are a different gang,” she says smoothly. “And for, uh, _reasons_ I found myself in an abandoned gas station today, talking to one of them. He told me you’d been around to ask some questions?”

“Me?” says Archie, snorting in disbelief. “And what were you doing on the _Southside_?”

“He said it hadn’t ended well,” Betty says, ignoring both Archie’s question and the explosive sigh Jughead lets out.

“Betty, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve only ever been south of the tracks to go to the drive-in.”

“Are you working for Hiram Lodge?” Jughead blurts out in an accusing voice.

“Jughead!” Betty hisses.

Archie’s frown deepens until his face is scrunched up beyond recognition. “ _What?_ ” he says.

“That’s the _only_ reasonable explanation!” says Jughead angrily, crossing his arms. “What else would you be doing there?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Archie again, getting to his feet. “I haven’t been anywhere doing anything. Betty, what the hell is going on?”

“He seemed to know you,” she says, giving him a helpless look.

Archie blinks a couple of times. “So this guy, this Ghostie or whatever, told you that I, Archie Andrews, had been to see him? When exactly was this supposed to have happened?”

Betty paces a few steps, trying to remember. “I don’t know. He didn’t say. A red-haired guy from Riverdale High, my age, in a football jacket,” she says. “That’s what he said, and if that isn’t you, then...”

“Could have been Jason Blossom,” says Archie with a shrug.

Betty freezes and gasps softly. “Oh my god,” she says, looking at Jughead. “ _Jason_. Of course. The Blossoms own all the land Hiram Lodge is trying to get his hands on. There’s been a Blossom connection all along, but we’ve been so preoccupied with Hiram. _Jason!_ ”

“He certainly fits the ‘didn’t end well’ part,” Jughead concedes.

Completely on impulse, Betty flings her arms around Archie. “Thank god it wasn’t you!” she says, and when he hugs her back, she shudders slightly with relief.

“Of course not. I thought you knew me better than that,” he scolds her jokingly.

Then she notices Jughead looking at them and quickly pulls away. She reaches for his hand, feeling a sudden need to reassert the _we_ , but he fiddles with his beanie and then shoves his hands in his pockets.

“So, the Blossoms…” he says, turning around towards the door, clearly anxious to leave even though he’s supposedly staying the night.

They’re interrupted by the sound of Archie’s phone ringing. Archie gives it a surprised glance and then answers it.

“Hey Ronnie,” he says. After a couple of seconds he looks at Betty. “Yeah, she’s here actually. Do you want to talk to her?”

When Archie hands her the phone, she takes it gingerly. If Veronica is already prepared to talk, Betty fully expects it to be a signature Veronica Lodge Earful.

“Hello?” she says.

“ _Betty, you need to come over_ ,” says Veronica. She sounds upset and out of breath, and the sound of her heels clicking rapidly across the floor can be heard through the receiver.

“ _There’s something I have to show you. Because… Because you were right. You and Jughead_.”

“What?” says Betty, confused.

“ _About daddy_ ,” Veronica says. “ _You were right about him_.”

Betty feels her head swimming. Even though this has been their working theory for weeks now, she hasn’t quite wanted to believe it. “Okay,” she manages. “We’re on our way.”

“What did she want?” Archie asks once Betty has hung up.

“We need to go to the Pembrooke,” says Betty to Jughead. “She’s got something on Hiram.”

“ _Finally_ ,” says Jughead emphatically.

“Is she okay?” asks Archie. “She sounded upset.”

“She _may_ have realized an unpleasant thing or two about her father,” Betty says delicately.

“I guess not even being filthy rich protects you from the truth,” says Jughead and makes for the door again.

Betty stares at him, a shock of discomfort shooting through her. What’s his problem, all of a sudden? This is her _friend_ they’re talking about. She finds herself glancing at Archie, who raises his eyebrows at her as if to say ‘what did you expect?’, and for a moment, Betty doesn’t know what to think about either of them.

“I’m coming with you guys,” says Archie then.

Jughead freezes for a moment and half-turns to Archie like he’s about to protest, but when Betty throws him a warning glance, he sighs and keeps moving. They scramble down the stairs and are mid-way through pulling their shoes on when Fred Andrews emerges from the kitchen, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder.

“You kids going out?” he asks. “Pasta’s almost done.”

“We’re going to Ronnie’s,” says Archie.

Fred turns to Betty with a frown.

“Mr. Andrews, I know my mom said–” she starts, but Fred holds a hand up.

“You guys aren’t about to do anything illegal, are you?” he asks.

“No!” say Archie and Betty as one, equally confused.

“Then go see Veronica,” says Fred with a shrug. “Your loss on a mean chicken Alfredo,” he hollers after them as they hurry down off the porch and make for Betty’s yard.

They pile into Jughead’s truck, Betty settling between the boys to stave off further tension. As it turns out though, another source of controversy soon presents itself in the rear-view mirror.

“Someone’s following us,” Archie says, looking over his shoulder. “A big guy on a bike.”

Jughead glances in the mirror. “That’s Sweets,” he says.

“You know him?”

“Sweet Pea is a friend,” says Betty diplomatically.

“He looks like a Serpent,” says Archie, still looking back.

“Shocker, I know, but those two things are not actually mutually exclusive,” says Jughead.

“I didn’t say they were.”

“Guys,” Betty pleads. “Can we please just focus?”

They spend the rest of the ride in a suffocating silence. Jughead’s grip on the wheel is just a little tight, and Archie keeps glancing in the mirror, clearly itching to say something else about their snake-branded escort. The final straw comes when Sweet Pea pulls up in the alley at the back of the Pembrooke to park next to Jughead’s truck as they’re getting out of it.

“You’re not coming inside,” says Archie decisively.

“Archie, _please_ ,” says Betty, passing a hand across her brow in frustration.

Sweet Pea climbs off the bike and walks up to join them, taking full advantage of his towering height as he leers down at Archie. “Is this your house, carrot-top?” he asks.

“Of course not - it’s mine,” says Veronica, emerging from the back entrance. “What’s going on here? Who are you?”

Sweet Pea looks up, spots Veronica and seemingly forgets all about Archie in a heartbeat. He saunters up to her, bumping lightly into Archie’s shoulder as he passes him.

“I’m Sweet Pea,” he says, somehow managing to make the ‘sweet’ sound like not just part of his name but a character trait. “I’m a friend of Jughead and Betty’s.”

“So am I,” says Veronica, looking him up and down with open approval. “Veronica Lodge,” she adds in a silky voice, tilting her chin up by way of greeting.

“Ronnie, he’s a Serpent,” says Archie, sounding increasingly like a petulant child.

“Last time I checked, it wasn't a crime,” says Jughead testily.

“I didn't _say_ -" Archie starts hotly.

“You know what, we don't have time for this,” says Veronica. “Daddy will be back any minute and I need to show you the plans.”

“Plans?” say Betty and Jughead as one.

“Just come _on_ ,” Veronica sighs.

She leads them through the narrow corridors of the servants’ quarters, up a winding set of stairs that Betty has never climbed before, past a number of doors before finally stopping by one of them and laying a careful hand on the doorknob.

“Please note that you are about to enter the inner sanctum of the Lodge residence,” Veronica says. “It goes without saying that you will respect the integrity of my family, not to mention both the emotional and monetary value of my parents’ personal belongings.”

“Is that just a fancy way of saying ‘don't touch anything’?” Jughead asks.

“Yes,” says Veronica, then turns the handle.

To Betty’s surprise, they step out into what can only be the master bedroom of the Lodge’s luxury apartment. Although it does contain an enormous raised bed, it’s much more than a bedroom; it’s a suite, complete with a seating area and a small private office in a separate chamber.

“You could fit my house in here,” Sweet Pea mutters.

“You could fit _Betty’s_ house in here,” says Jughead, earning himself an irritated glare from Betty.

“This way,” says Veronica, ignoring them and heading for the desk in the adjoining room.

She sits down in the chair and with practiced ease fiddles with something under the middle drawer. A soft click later, and a hidden compartment slides out into her lap. Inside is a neat pile of notebooks and a couple of folders, but instead of taking them out, Veronica’s hand shoots out to slap at Archie’s arm just as he reaches for an ornate inkhorn on the desk.

“Ow,” he says with a hiss, giving Veronica a hurt glance.

“What did I just tell you?” she asks sweetly. “And even after Jughead was kind enough to translate for the verbally challenged? I’m disappointed, Archiekins. Now make yourself useful and go watch the door. There’s a peephole.”

“ _Archiekins_ ,” Sweet Pea repeats quietly with a snicker as Archie stalks off, cheeks flaming.

“Here we are,” says Veronica, carefully lifting one of the folders out of the drawer and putting it on the desk.

She takes out and unfolds what looks like blueprints for a large complex consisting of several buildings.

“Is this SoDale?” Betty asks. “The Southside...facelift?”

“Gentrification,” says Jughead. " _Exploitation_."

“That’s what I _thought_ it was,” says Veronica, her fingers nervously flattening down a dog-eared document in the folder. “As it turns out, though, daddy is sort of building a… Well, it’s a secure detention centre, really. State of the art. No expenses spared. Extremely secure.”

Jughead and Sweet Pea exchange a frown.

“Is that just a fancy way of saying ‘maximum security prison’?” says Sweet Pea.

“Yes,” says Veronica meekly.

“That’s crazy,” says Betty, shaking her head, her eyes roaming the blueprints. “Why is your father building a prison instead of property?”

Veronica heaves a sigh and pulls out a pamphlet from the folder. It shows an artist’s rendition of an enormous five-storey prison, underneath which a short text reads: _Is the rise of crime running your budget into the ground? Send your least wanted townsfolk to Southside Supermax in Riverdale and save millions!_ And then in smaller print underneath: _Opens March 2019 with a time limited 2-for-1 offer. Terms and conditions apply._

“Oh my god,” Betty murmurs. “It’s a–”

“For-profit prison, yep,” says Veronica.

“Holy shit,” mutters Sweet Pea.

Jughead tips his head back and lets out a long breath. “What about the housing for Southsiders you kept talking about?” he asks then.

“There’s _some_ housing planned,” Veronica says carefully, pointing towards a smaller building off to the side on the blueprints. “For wardens and such. But I think the idea was to accommodate most of you on the _inside_ , as it were.”

While Sweet Pea takes the opportunity to let loose a couple of select observations about Northsiders sprinkled with some very colorful language, Jughead simply groans and starts pacing the floor. With slow determination, Veronica folds the blueprints up again.

“I really believed him,” she says quietly. “When he said he was a changed man.”

“Ronnie…” Betty starts.

“We have to stop it,” says Veronica, slamming the folder shut. “I can talk sense into him, I can–”

“Guys, someone’s coming,” says Archie then, running over from the door.

Veronica slides the hidden drawer into place and they all hurry over to the servant’s entrance in the bedroom. When Ronnie tries turning the handle, however, it’s locked.

“Drat, I forgot the stupid latch!” she whines, then herds them over to a large closet in a corner. “In here, quick!”

Betty is the last to squeeze inside after Jughead, and only just manages to pull the door shut behind her before someone enters the bedroom suite. She barely dares to breathe, but the others seemingly have no such qualms.

“Dude, you’re crushing me,” whispers Archie angrily.

“Tuck your fat head in then,” Sweet Pea hisses back.

“Boys,” Veronica says in a low, warning voice, and they fall quiet.

Whoever is out there isn’t moving around or making any kind of noise, and the seconds drag on as they wait, occasionally bumping elbows or shushing each other quietly. Jughead is standing right behind Betty, and to her surprise she suddenly feels his hand on her hip. A strangled noise nearly escapes her as he slides the hand further down, pressing into her thigh.

 _This is_ not _the time_ , she thinks frantically all while trying her hardest to resist the urge to subtly grind her butt against him. And then she realises that he’s just trying to get her to move a little to the right, and quickly edges aside, eternally grateful that the dark closet is hiding her flaming face. Behind her, Jughead leans forward to glimpse out between the wardrobe doors.

“It's Andre,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

Betty slowly kneels down until she can peep through the crack in the door as well. Andre is standing by the window, peering down at whatever is below. He remains there, still as a statue for what feels like hours. Veronica sighs impatiently and someone fidgets, and then finally the silence is broken by the door to the bedroom suite opening again, Hiram Lodge sweeping inside.

“How was Jersey City?” he asks Andre, making straight for the wardrobe, and the teenagers inside hold a collective, quivering breath. Hiram unbuttons his suit jacket, shrugs it off and throws it on the bed, and to Betty’s intense relief he heads back out towards the office.

“Some progress was made,” says Andre, “and some kneecaps were fractured.”

Veronica takes a sharp breath, and Betty jabs an elbow in her leg.

“Good, good,” says Hiram, removing his cufflinks and handing them to Andre. “Hopefully you can advance things at home as well. We need to track that missing product down, and fast.”

At that, Veronica winces audibly, and Jughead hushes her frantically.

“I’m want you to pay Mr. Petite another visit,” Hiram goes on, and now it’s Sweet Pea’s turn to curse quietly under his breath. “He’s missed another deadline, and besides, there’s been some kind of disturbance on the Southside earlier today.”

“How so?” Andre asks.

“I heard rumors of a bike chase. Very dramatic. Apparently a girl was involved. Some Serpents made it out of Ghoulie territory though, and hopefully that means our assets have been secured.”

“I’ll make my way to Sunnyside right away,” says Andre.

“Good man. Will you go easy on him?”

“You know I won’t,” says Andre, and both men throw their heads back and laugh.

Hiram claps Andre on the shoulder and shows him out, and inside the wardrobe, the air is so thick you’d need a knife to cut through it. Betty is sure she's not the only one mentally willing Hiram Lodge to follow Andre's example and leave, but to her intense horror he does the exact opposite and approaches the wardrobe again.

Any number of ridiculous attempts at excuses for why they'd be in here fly through Betty's brain as Veronica's father steps closer. Behind her, Ronnie grabs Betty's shoulder, pinching her so hard that Betty is sure it'll leave a mark.

Mr. Lodge stops in front of one of the doors to look himself in the mirror. With nimble fingers he loosens his tie and pulls it from under his collar. He smiles at himself, then says something in Spanish that Betty doesn't understand, but that sounds very self-congratulatory. He tosses the tie on top of the jacket on the bed, rolls his shirt sleeves up and then reaches for the doorknob on the wardrobe.

Betty squeezes her eyes shut, feeling Jughead grab her other shoulder almost as tightly as Veronica. Surely he can't kill us all, she thinks irrationally. And then there's a discreet knock on the door.

“Yes?” says Hiram, and Betty's eyes snap open again, stinging with nervous tears.

It's Smithers, the elderly doorman, sticking his head through the door politely. “Mrs. Lodge has returned from the Hamptons,” he says. “You said to let you know.”

“Thank you, Smithers,” says Hiram, taking his hand off the doorknob. “I'll come at once.”

And, miracle of miracles, he does leave, and if Betty wasn't already kneeling down, her legs would surely have buckled beneath her.

Before Betty gets the chance to show her skills with a hairpin, Sweet Pea takes matters into his own hands, whipping out a set of lock picks. As soon as they're safely on the other side of the servant’s door, the quintet launches into deliberations about what they’ve just heard.

“If I’d have known we were going to visit the devil himself, I would have given it a miss,” Sweet Pea says darkly.

“Excuse you,” Veronica snaps. “That’s my father you’re talking about.”

“Your father’s an asshole, so what’s your point?” says Sweet Pea.

“It means _I_ have first dibs on being horrible about him,” says Veronica. Then she stomps her foot angrily. “That _asshole_! I can’t _believe_ he did this.”

Jughead gives her a withering look. “Have you seen his resume?”

“Guys, what now?” says Betty urgently. “Andre’s on his way to the Southside right now to beat up some poor guy.”

“Not some poor guy,” says Jughead. “To us, Gerald Petite is better known as Tall Boy.”

“Oh,” says Betty slowly, piecing it all together.

“Shouldn’t someone call the police?” says Archie then, waving the phone he’s already taken out of his pocket.

“No!” say the rest of them as one.

“But–!”

“Archie, no,” says Betty warningly, closing her fingers around his wrist

Veronica lays a gentle hand on Archie’s shoulder. “That’s a nice thought, Archiekins. Admirable and logical. But when there’s friends and family involved, on both sides no less, it’s better to handle things discreetly.”

“Whatever,” says Sweet Pea impatiently. “Tall Boy’s about to get company and I want to be there to see the shit hit the fan.”

They barely make it downstairs and into the back alley behind the Pembrooke before their chase is interrupted by yet another heated debate.

“I'm not leaving Ronnie alone on the Southside with two Serpents!” says Archie.

“And no one's asking you to,” says Veronica sweetly. “It's just that we can't all fit in Jughead's truck.”

“He’s not riding with me,” says Sweet Pea bluntly.

“Couldn’t agree more,” says Archie, crossing his arms.

Betty suppresses an irritated sigh. “Maybe Jughead can go with Sweet Pea,” she suggests.

Jughead throws a sidelong glance at Archie, who glares back.

“I’m a good driver,” says Archie defensively.

“Who cares?” says Betty incredulously. “ _I’m_ driving!”

“We’re ready when you are,” Veronica calls out.

Betty and the boys whip around to see Veronica fastening the chin strap of a helmet, sitting comfortably behind Sweet Pea who winks and grins at them before kickstarting the bike.

 

* * *

 

Impossible though it may seem, riding between Archie and Jughead is even more uncomfortable this time. Archie keeps chewing at a nail while scanning the road ahead with uneasy eyes, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of Sweet Pea and Veronica, and Jughead is driving faster than strictly necessary, yanking at the gear stick with a scowl that rivals the one he sported in his first week with the Coopers.

As they drive past the sign at the entrance to Sunnyside, Jughead kills the headlights and slows down, letting the car crawl along until they spot Sweet Pea’s bike parked next to a trailer.

“We’ll walk from here,” says Jughead, then pulls over and turns off the engine.

They find Sweet Pea and Veronica lurking behind an old RV a few lots down the road.

“What’s going on?” Betty asks.

“Andre is in there right now,” Veronica says in a hushed voice, nodding at the next trailer along.

Muffled voices can be heard from a propped-up window next to the steps leading up to the trailer, but they’re too distant to fully make out. As quietly as she can, Betty sneaks over to the stairs, ignoring Veronica’s frantic whispers, warning her to be careful. Archie hangs back, hovering next to Veronica, but Jughead joins Betty, coming to stand alongside her below the window.

“...just not good enough.”

It’s Andre’s voice, drifting down to them, and Jughead and Betty exchange a quick glance.

“Give me another couple of days, no, wait, _one_ day,” comes a voice.

“Tall Boy,” Jughead mouths silently at her.

There’s a loud thump and a groan that gives Betty chills, and Jughead shuffles nervously.

“What part of ‘I want names’ don’t you understand?” says Andre.

“If I told you...,” Tall Boy wheezes. “They’d kill me… They’d…”

“ _I_ will kill you,” Andre says calmly. There’s another thud - sharper, like something’s cracked, and Tall Boy whines.

“Isaiah,” he grunts. “Gas station. In the Graveyard.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” says Andre.

For a few moments, all is silent and Betty relaxes slowly, but then there’s another muffled blow, and another, and another. She can feel the bile rising in her throat, and then Jughead’s hand is there, fumbling for hers. Gratefully she grasps it, squeezing it tightly. The look on his face is unreadable as they stand there, enduring the sounds of the violent assault on Tall Boy.

When it finally stops, Jughead jerks his head to the side, silently motioning at Betty to follow him around the back of the trailer. Moments later, they can hear the door opening.

“Oh, and Gerald,” Andre calls. “If I have to leave the Graveyard empty-handed I’m afraid I’m ordered to come back here and finish what I started.”

A minute later Andre’s car is gone, tires screeching off into the night, and Betty and Jughead hurry over to rejoin their friends.

“We need to go in there and talk to him,” says Jughead to Sweet Pea.

Betty swallows, steeling herself. “I’m coming too,” she says.

“Me too,” says Veronica quickly.

But Jughead shakes his head. “He’ll know who you are, who your father is.”

“Then why exactly are we here?” asks Archie.

“More to the point, why exactly are _you_ here?” mutters Sweet Pea.

“Keep an eye out,” says Betty to Ronnie. “In case someone comes. I’ll tell you everything after.”

Veronica nods and gets her phone out. “Keep yours on vibrate,” she says. “I’ll call you if anyone comes, okay?”

“We don’t have our phones,” says Betty, glancing at Jughead. “Mom…”

“Go on ahead guys, I won’t be a minute,” says Sweet Pea. He snatches the phone out of Veronica’s hand and starts putting his number in.

Meanwhile, Betty and Jughead sneak silently over to the trailer and up the steps to step inside.

What awaits them is nothing less than a war zone. The kitchen is littered with dirty dishes and empty beer bottles, there’s overturned furniture and broken glass on the floor, and the lamp over the small dinner table has been pulled down off its hook, left to dangle lopsidedly in a corner.

“Forget something?” comes a slurred voice from the next room along.

After sharing a look and a nod, Betty and Jughead start picking their way through the debris towards the open door. Behind them, the front door squeaks on its hinges, and Betty can hear Sweet Pea letting out a low whistle.

The living room looks no better than the kitchen, but more alarming than broken plates and flipped tables is the man sitting duct taped to a chair in the middle of the room. The sight of him makes Betty tense up with fear, makes her realize just what it is they’re meddling in. It must be Tall Boy, and Andre most definitely hasn’t gone easy on him. His face is a mess of snot and blood, and the look he gives Jughead is a strange mixture of relief and terror.

“Jones,” Tall Boy croaks. “What a coincidence.”

“Isn’t it though?” says Sweet Pea, squeezing in behind Jughead and Betty.

Tall Boy briefly tips his head back and closes his eyes with a sigh, then looks to Jughead again. “To what do I owe this grand rescue committee?” he says. “And what’s the Northsider doing here? I’m not sure your old man would approve. I know you’ve been away, kid, but surely you haven’t forgotten the laws...”

Jughead interrupts Tall Boy by stepping up to him and putting his sneaker on the older Serpent’s knee, using it as a footrest. Then he leans forward until their faces are almost touching, resting his arms casually on his leg.

“My old man?” says Jughead. “You mean the guy you sold out to Hiram Lodge? The _laws_ , Tall Boy? The laws that state that no Serpent is left behind?”

“What did he promise you?” Sweet Pea asks, his voice unsteady with rage. “Money? Is that it? A tiny cut of however many millions he’s about to make when he razes our homes to the ground?”

Tall Boy scoffs at that, and a little bit of blood dribbles down his chin. “You boys are even dumber than you look,” he drawls. “You think you can save the Southside by taking me out? Nothing can save the Southside. It’s too late for that.”

Jughead leans a little heavier on Tall Boy, making him wince. “So you’re, what, throwing the rest of us under the bus and saving your own skin?”

Tall Boy doesn’t answer that, and Jughead pushes off him, making a disgusted noise. He paces the short length of the room and back again, then pulls Sweet Pea aside to have a word in his ear. Sweet Pea nods once before disappearing out into the kitchen.

For the first time since she entered the room, Tall Boy looks directly at Betty. His right eye is almost caked shut with blood that’s trickled down from a cut in his brow, and the way he regards her drowsily makes her feel sick. She wonders briefly if Jughead could ever… If he’d be _capable_ … But she doesn’t want to finish that thought.

“You look familiar,” says Tall Boy.

“Me?” says Betty, even though it’s abundantly clear he means her.

“You’re Alice’s girl,” he says with a little grin.

She can feel herself beginning to shiver slightly with nerves. What is this dark legacy? Who was mom on the Southside? Who might Betty have been if she’d never left? Jughead is watching Sweet Pea through the open door, seemingly unfazed by the chaos of the trailer, by Tall Boy’s broken face, like it’s business as usual. Betty tries to imagine herself as someone who wouldn’t tremble. Someone who wouldn’t be on the verge of crying for no reason other than being a scaredy-cat who gets an upset stomach at the sight of blood.

“Why did Hiram want you to plant those drugs?” she manages.

Tall Boy frowns at her, and Jughead turns around with sudden interest.

“What?” says Tall Boy.

“The missing drugs,” says Betty, putting some steel into her voice this time. “The ones you planted in FP’s truck. Framing FP might have been a bonus, but we all know he wasn’t the real target.”

“Wasn’t he?” says Tall Boy, glancing at Jughead. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just the messenger.”

“Don’t act stupid,” Betty says. “We overheard the little chat you had with Hiram’s henchman. Those drugs had another purpose.” With each sentence, each word, she feels more confident in the act she’s putting on.

“Who’s the supplier?” says Jughead suddenly. He drifts over to join Betty again. “And don’t say the Ghoulies. I mean the _supplier_.”

Tall Boy chuckles. “Now why would I go telling you kids that?”

Betty glances at a clock on the wall. “Because in, oh, half an hour or so, Andre is going to come back empty-handed from the Graveyard, and I very much doubt he’ll find a reason to keep you alive.”

She’s winging it now, playing by ear with the piano in a different building, but luckily, Jughead immediately cottons on.

“Me, I don’t really care if you live or die,” he says. “I just want you gone, away from here. You give us what we need, and we’ll get you out of here.”

Tall Boy glares at him.

“Serpent’s honor,” says Jughead, raising his hand to his shoulder. “Besides, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

For a moment, Jughead freezes, and then he lets his hand sink to his side. “That’s it,” he says, looking at Betty, his eyes shining. “That’s the answer. The bigger fish. _Hiram’s_ bigger fish. It’s been there, right in front of our noses this whole time. Remember what my dad said? That there’s a very limited number of people in Riverdale who could ever afford that amount of cocaine. Hiram Lodge, obviously. And…” he trails off, looking expectantly at Betty.

“The Blossoms,” she says softly. “Oh my god, it all makes sense now. Jason, everything.”

As one, they turn to Tall Boy, and the look on his face is all the confirmation they need.

Just then, Sweet Pea sticks his head in the room. “They’re here,” he says.

Betty can hear heavy footsteps, and Sweet Pea steps aside to let Toni, Joaquin and Fangs in. Toni catches Betty’s eye and raises her chin by way of greeting. There’s a hint of a smile there, but also something else, sad and serious. Some vague understanding passes between them, a sombre bonding over being young girls surrounded by the havoc men wreak, and Betty smiles back weakly.

“Thanks for helping out guys,” Jughead says. “Keep him in the chair for now.” Then he turns to Toni. “Take this straight to Thomas, okay? He can summon the elders. They’ll decide what to do with him now.”

“What?” says Tall Boy, confused.

“Where do you want him?” says Fangs, walking around Tall Boy and slapping his hands down on his shoulders.

“Joaquin’s is closest,” says Toni.

“Now wait just a minute here,” says Tall Boy anxiously. “I gave you what you asked for. You said you’d let me go!”

“Actually, I think you’ll find the exact words I used were ‘get you out of here’,” says Jughead calmly, watching as Sweet Pea and Fangs hoist Tall Boy up, chair and all.

Tall Boy keeps protesting as the young Serpents carry him away, leaving Jughead and Betty alone in the wrecked trailer. As the noise dies down, Betty’s shoulders sink. Everything that’s happened has left her almost numb, too overwhelmed to fully process her feelings. She finds herself staring blankly at a lopsided picture frame on the wall, barely resisting the urge to nudge it straight. Then Jughead makes a strange little noise, and when Betty looks his way she realizes he’s shivering.

“Are you okay?” she says, clasping his arms.

“Yeah,” he says, looking away with a frown.

He seems to will himself to relax, but then he shivers again, as though he’s feverish. Not knowing what else to do, Betty pulls him into a tight embrace. At first he just stands there, stiff and trembling slightly, but after a few moments his body softens in her arms, and he hugs her back, tangling his fingers in her hair.

“God,” he whispers. “Everything is just...”

“I know,” she says, and yes, everything really _is_.

He heaves a sigh that’s almost a sob and subtly wipes his nose on his sleeve. Maybe it wasn’t business as usual after all, Betty thinks. Maybe this was the kind of business Jughead didn’t want to get used to when he packed up and moved to the Twilight.

Then they hear someone stepping carefully into the trailer, and Jughead gently shakes her off and draws himself up.

“Guys?” Veronica calls.

Betty and Jughead move into the kitchen, where Archie and Veronica are standing, looking at the chaos in stunned silence.

“What now?” Archie asks.

“We end this,” says Jughead. “At Thornhill.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: I've disabled anon commenting. Trolls who are interested in fake handwringing about Barchie, feel free to log in and comment, but rest assured those kind of baits will be deleted.


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